Losing Gods and Triumphing Monsters
by Xelphial
Summary: Harry Potter was whisked away in the night, leaving his parents alive but heartbroken. Voldemort ceased all attacks, disappearing, and was soon declared dead by the Ministry. When the Triwizard Tournament is finally restarted, a boy with an uncanny resemblance to the Potters appears, but he seems to have more sinister motives than merely competing.
1. With Shock

**Chapter One**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

"He'll be here. I know it." Lily whispered to James resolutely.

James only smiled back with a strange expression consisting of a smile and a grimace.

Their first child, Harry Potter, had been taken from Godric's Hollow in the middle of the night when he was but a year old. Peter Pettigrew had been found and captured for his sins, but was found dead in his temporary cell before the interrogation. Everyone would have assumed that the child was dead.

Her clock proved otherwise. It was something like the Weasley family's clock, but far more detailed. Lily had the clock made when she first found herself with child. Harry's needle had never pointed to 'Dead' throughout all these years, but instead remained firmly pointed at the blank spot at the south of the clock. It was what gave Lily hope, against all the odds. It was also what convinced Lily to accept the offer to become Hogwarts' Charms professor.

"Lily's really convinced that Harry will be coming from one of the other schools?" Sirius asked James when he saw Lily's attention focused on somewhere outside the Hogwarts castle.

"Yes. She's been staring out of the window, waiting for the other schools to arrive." James said, glancing at his wife, who was still staring out the window longingly.

"Even if he doesn't, she would insist that Harry merely didn't get chosen." Remus added quietly. He had been staying at Hogwarts ever since Umbridge drafted the Anti-Werewolf Legislation in nineteen ninety three, acting as Rubeus Hagrid's assistant.

"He may still appear." James lowered his eyes to the floor, smiling slightly. "This is my last hope, you get me? The only chance I would get to even see students from other schools. Maybe I could ask whether anyone knows him."

"Students will be complaining about the wacko Auror that's been asking about green eyes." Sirius joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Come on, its five thirty already. We've got to go down to greet the foreign students."

James tapped Lily lightly on the shoulder. With a startled jump, she looked away from the window.

"Come on, we'd better hurry, or Filch will have our heads." Sirius said, dragging Remus down the stairs with him. Shaking their heads, the two Potters only smiled and followed at a slower pace behind.

The Triwizard tournament had finally been restarted in nineteen ninety seven, a whole three years later than planned because of Voldemort. His attacks had slowly but surely lessened until one day, all of it stopped eight years ago.

Most marked Death Eaters were caught and let free with the excuse of the Imperius Curse. The notorious Bellatrix Lestrange had disappeared into thin air along with the Dark Lord. Despite all the suspicious points, Fudge was happy as a lark. Voldemort was declared dead. Azkaban wasn't filled to the brim with Death Eaters, and his career was going smooth. Many people were skeptical at first, but as the years passed and there was no sign of Voldemort, most accepted and welcomed the peace.

Not all were appeased—namely Dumbledore—and James privately thought the old wizard was right.

It was unsettling, because more and more former Death Eaters were having high-ranking spots in the Ministry. Many of their children also skipped out on Hogwarts, instead choosing to go to Beauxbatons, a bizarre choice going against tradition.

Of course, James would never say those thoughts outright. With that Dolores Umbridge acting as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, he could be easily fired.

When the four arrived, the students were already standing neatly in lines, and the ever-strict Professor McGonagall was making sure her students were impeccably groomed.

"First years in front, please,"

"To think I'm old enough to enter," Ron crowed. "I'm going to win that prize money!"

"You don't even know if you'll be chosen." said Hermione.

"How do you think they'll be arriving?" Seamus grinned. "I say _brooms_."

"I say Apparation." Ron added.

"You can't apparated into Hogwarts grounds, Ron! I think I've said that for a million times." Hermione said impatiently. "And it's too far, isn't it? Too far to travel by broomsticks."

"Well, they could apparate outside the grounds and walk in." Ron protested, shivering as a gust of wind blew over the assembled students.

All chattering ceased when Dumbledore called out from behind the students. "Aha! I believe Beauxbatons approaches!"

Seamus looked to the left, Hermione to the right, Ron to the sky, and Seamus twirled in a circle in search of the mysterious delegation.

A huge shadowy figure grew even larger against the dark evening sky.

"It's a flying house!" screamed Dennis Creevey.

"No, it's a congregation of broomsticks!" someone else argued.

The rest of the students stood awestruck and stunned at the sight, watching as the gigantic figure approached, growing larger and larger by the moment.

Hooves the size of dinner plates stomped the ground, the horses' fiery red eyes shining furiously in the darkness, and tossed their manes.

* * *

With a large thump, the carriage came to a stop.

Ambrose opened the carriage door and tried to jump down as gracefully as possible. A flight of great golden steps folded down, and he stepped aside as Madame Maxime's shiny black heels made its descend down. The rest of the students filed down after her, and he gravitated to where Daphne and Blaise were standing.

"Disappointed?" Daphne teased, her French as natural as English, nudging Blaise gently.

"Quite. I was expecting a shining palace like Beauxbatons'." he motioned towards the Hogwarts grounds. "This is unexpectedly bit dark and dreary."

Ambrose shrugged. "It's still rather grand. The atmosphere here seems…more casual."

"Maybe because they don't have such strict etiquette here." Blaise snorted.

"You don't know that though, do you?" Ambrose scanned the sea of black robes. "They look quite presentable to me."

"We do," Daphne grinned, observing Dumbledore kissing the Headmistress' hand. "I have friends here, and from their descriptions, wearing red is a pseudonym for avoid, and the ones wearing green are the best."

"I bet your friends are wearing green." Ambrose guessed smugly.

"And they are, but we don't get to sit there."

"Why?" asked Blaise. "Headmistress said it was free seating."

"Only after the champions are chosen, I believe." Ambrose frowned, trying to remember the Headmistress' words. "I think she said something about our uniforms fitting the blue house, so we will sit there as a school at first."

"Come," Madame Maxime said, and the crowd parted to let them through.

Suddenly, a shriek pierced the chattering. "It's Ambrose Eschete! Oh Merlin, Eschete!" Ginny squealed, pointing to the green-eyed boy clad in powder blue. The student body exploded into an even louder buzz, though the adults at the back were standing puzzled.

"Do you think he'll sign my hat?"

"A quill—does anyone have a quill?"

"Lipstick; that'll work right?"

Before any of his fans could ask for a signature, the Beauxbatons students had already passed and entered the Great Hall. Both boys failed to notice the brief scowl that flashed across Daphne's face at the girls' comments.*

"Looks like you've even got fans in Britain." Blaise smirked as Ambrose shook his head.

"I think they'll be rather disappointed by his actual face." Daphne coughed. "You see his skin here isn't even half as smooth."

"It does not matter…as long as no one asks me why." Ambrose grumbled, choosing a seat at the blue house, which turned out to be called Ravenclaw.

"I heard about the WonderWitch cosmetics. They're sold by Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, and Dahlia says it's even better than Pavotéclate's."

Ambrose considered the validity of her words. Truly, Dahlia Aydelotte had enviable flawless skin. "She uses WonderWitch?"

"Ooh, are you interested?" Daphne teased, before continuing on a more serious note. "You'll have to ask her."

The Hall filled up some time after, and the most of the Beauxbatons pupils were looking around the Hall glumly.

"Draco said that there were golden plates." Daphne sighed.

"And there are golden plates." said Ambrose. "I prefer Bella's silverware, though, they are much more delicate. This is a bit chunky."

"The gold looks more like bronze. Well-polished, but still bronze." Daphne said, prodding a plate.

Madame Maxime strode in, her shiny black ensemble and tall height drawing everyone's attention, and Ambrose leapt to his feet. A few Hogwarts students laughed, and Daphne shot them a scandalized glare. The blue clad students only resumed their seats when Madame Maxime sat, and after a short speech from Dumbledore, food appeared on the golden plates.

"This Hogwarts food is too heavy." Daphne pouted. "And oily."

"Why, worried for the Yule Ball?" Blaise said, devouring the bacon strips.

"Even if Daphne's not, I am. My dress robes are rather form-fitting." Ambrose eyed the bouillabaisse at the red house's table. "I spy some bouillabaisse."

"Oh." Daphne's eyes lit up. "But it's at Gryffindor's table."

Ambrose looked down the length of the Ravenclaw's table, and shook his head. "There's only bacon, steak and ham here. I shall ask the redhead for it."

"Red is a pseudonym for avoid." Blaise reminded him.

"Then you can avoid the bouillabaisse." Before any of his two friends could say anything, Ambrose had stood up, heading for the Gryffindor table. At the sight of the young singer coming closer, the red table's occupants seemed to be chirruping with soft squeals.

"—so unfair, Durmstrang has Krum, Beauxbatons has Eschete, Hogwarts has nothing—" he vaguely heard a student from the yellow house comment as he passed.

"Excuse me," Ambrose said in English, smiling apologetically for interrupting the conversation. "Do you still want the bouillabaisse?"

The redhead turned, startled, and stared at the green-eyed boy for a second before turning back to the dish.

"Yeah, take it." Ron finally said.

"You are finished with it, yes?"

"Yeah, all finished." Seamus confirmed.

"Uh," Another redhead, female this time, spoke before Ambrose could pick up the dish. She was nervously holding up lipstick and a pointed black hat, blushing furiously. "Could—could you sign it? Please?"

Ambrose complied, signing it carelessly. He took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles and handed the hat back.

"I apologise, it may be a bit crooked." The boy smiled, taking the plate of bouillabaisse up carefully and walking back to the Ravenclaw table.

"I should've brought lipstick too." Hermione muttered disappointedly.

Ron and Seamus stared at her, aghast. "Are you sure you're Hermione?" they exclaimed together.

"Don't look at me like that! My parents enjoy his music." Hermione said defensively, and explained further when she received an even more bewildered look from Seamus. "Ever since I set up the Wizarding radio back home, they've been obsessed with it."

"You should listen to _Ciel de Choix_." Parvati suggested. "That radio station is ranking third in popularity currently, and they put on loads of French songs."

"Oh, don't waste your breath, Parvati. My brother here never listens to the radio." Ginny complained. "In fact, he even tries to turn it off."

By this time, Ambrose had already returned to the Ravenclaw table, setting the bouillabaisse down carefully.

"Those Gryffindors sure are strange." Ambrose complained, still in English, taking his seat. "I heard them talking about eating Hagrid's fingers and huge spiders in the forest outside."

"Huge spiders?" Daphne broke in worriedly. "Just outside?"

"Yeah, it's called the Forbidden Forest, just beside the castle." Cho Chang said, joining into the conversation. "And Hagrid's our Care of Magical Creatures teacher; he often brings dangerous animals to class."

"Like what?" Blaise asked, wondering how dangerous the creatures were compared to Beauxbatons'.

"Thestrals, hippogriffs, Blast-Ended Skrewts—"

"What?" Ambrose interrupted. He'd never heard of anything like that before. "Blasted Ended what?"

"Skrewts," Cho smiled. "They were bred by Hagrid himself, a cross between manticore and fire crabs."

"Manticore?" Daphne gasped. "Fire crabs?"

"And he got the students to handle these?" Ambrose frowned.

"Not just handle." Cho snorted. "We had to feed them; take them for walks, like a pet. It didn't help that they were hyper-aggressive, and as unique hybrids, the teacher himself knew nothing about them."

"Is there not a ban on experimental breeding?" said Ambrose disbelievingly. "I can't believe he let students touch _hybrids_ he had no knowledge of."

"There is, but the Headmaster is Dumbledore after all." Cho sighed, remembering the terrible moments she had during the Magical Creatures class. "He's not bad, but his teaching is questionable. How is Beauxbatons' Care of Magical Creatures?"

"Boring and safe, loads of theory and often muddy, but everyone loves it." Daphne said smugly. "Guess why?"

"The animals are cute?"

The blue-clad girl shook her head tantalisingly. "It's the Abraxan horses. We get to breed them in third year, and the foal will be yours to keep even after leaving Beauxbatons if you got a Magnificent for all your NEWT exams and O's for all the OWL exams."

"Serious? They give away Abraxans just like that?" Cho said skeptically.

"Just like that, but getting an M for NEWT is already hard enough…all M's? I doubt anyone could achieve that." Ambrose said mournfully. He had grown rather attached to the horse, and the thought of having to leave it when graduating was depressing.

"That sounds like excellent incentive to get people studying though." Cho said approvingly. "Wish Hogwarts could do that."

Golden plates cleared; the dishes were replaced by dessert.

Ambrose frowned at the spread. "Why doesn't this table have any good dishes again?" he lamented.

"Crème caramel, blancmange—is that a slice of Charlotte à la Framboise?" Blaise muttered, craning his head to look at the Gryffindor table's selection of food.

Someone at the table moved the plate of blancmange a few inches to the right carefully, as if tempting the Beauxbatons students to come over once more.

"Mmhm…I'd really like some of the crème caramel." Ambrose eyed the delicacy hungrily.

"Yule Ball. Dress Robes. Diet." Daphne said sharply.

"Yule Ball?" Cho asked curiously. "There'll be a ball?"

Ambrose looked at the black haired girl incredulously. "You don't know? Dumbledore has not told you _anything_?"

"Nothing at all, not a hint. What's this about a ball?"

Daphne, Blaise and Ambrose shared a glance. Seems like the old wizard's reputation for being fair was true. Well, that would only make it easier for the other schools to win.

"The ball will be held on Christmas, sometime after the first task." Daphne said.

"Seriously?" Cho gasped. "Oh dear, I brought my lousiest dress robes. Why didn't Dumbledore say anything earlier?"

Smiling, Ambrose was reminded of a friend back in Beauxbatons. "But you already know earlier than everyone else."

"Yes—thank you, I'd never have enough time to get better robes otherwise. I think I'll owl back home for some…"

All of a sudden, the plates cleared as Ambrose finally started reaching for a slice of trifle. Dumbledore stood up.

"Such awful timing." Ambrose grumbled.

Dumbledore smiled at the sea of upturned faces. "The moment has come. The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket, just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation—"

Ambrose felt a flare of dislike for the man, and did not bother clapping. Instead, he turned his eyes to Mad-Eye Moody, who stared straight ahead, his face cold as stone.

"The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch." Dumbledore concluded. He tapped his wand on the casket, revealing a plain Cup with unique blue flame, announcing that the Goblet of Fire would be placed in the Great Hall."

Hogwarts students craned their necks and whispered fervently, and when the cup was brought out, blue flames dancing merrily inside, the whispers grew even louder. He mentioned something about an age line, which was the new Tournament's condition.

"We only have twenty-four hours to submit our names." Ambrose moaned after the old man's speech was over.

"Why would you need more than that?" Daphne said, looking at him strangely. "Even five hours would be more than enough, honestly."

He did not answer.

* * *

"Do you still remember your Abraxan horses?" Madame Maxime said. At the silent nods from her students, she continued. "The one chosen: if he or she wins the Tournament, they get to keep theirs."

"We will place our names in the Goblet of Fire tomorrow morning, as a school." Madame Maxime declared, looking at the congregation of her best students. "Is that clear?"

Everyone nodded, and seeing that there was no disagreement, the abnormally tall woman turned back into her room as a sign of dismissal, and the rest of the students burst into chattering.

"We get to keep them?"

"One thousand Galleons of price money and an Abraxan—the horse itself is more than one thousand already!"

"I could keep Howlite." Ambrose murmured to himself.

A few hours later, the talk ceased; it was curfew already, and the students scattered into their rooms.

When the clock hit midnight, Ambrose dressed in black robes and slipped on his shoes, grabbing his cloak, parchment, a quill and tiptoed out of his room.

His cloak was charmed with a Bedazzling Hex, and he put it on, quietly sneaking out of the luxurious carriage that housed the Beauxbatons crowd. The carriage was not very far from the castle itself—Ambrose pushed through the grass, ignoring the rustle of grass his hurried footfalls caused till he reached the Entrance Hall.

"Barty." He whispered into thin air, and a detached hand suddenly grasped him by the shoulder, steering him backwards.

"Ambrose?" the invisible man that surely was Barty Crouch Jr confirmed. "You do remember the plan?"

"I do, but I really, really doubt it'll work…honestly, it's not that easy to sneak around the school, is it?"

"It will. I've heard all about the Beauxbatons security—prowling guards, traps, wards…none of that here. " Barty promised. "Normally, the security at Hogwarts is _terrible_, but because this is an important international thing, they have sent two Aurors to patrol in addition to the teachers."

"Only two Aurors? Are you kidding me?"

"I'm not. There won't be other patrols, but I have no idea about the Aurors."

"So you all dragged me into this plan just because of two extra Aurors."

"Indeed, indeed, and this is something we mustn't fail. He may not set the Cruciatus Curse on _you_, but he will on _me._" Barty emphasised.

"Then…then why are we talking in a precarious situation like it's a tea party? Anyone could suddenly walk in now."

"I told you earlier. The security here sucks." Barty smiled and shook his head, though Ambrose couldn't see him. "Then we shall get onto business. Recite the plan, please, so I can ensure your information didn't go through a game of Chinese whispers."

"Duplicate Moody two times, cast the disillusionment charm on them, be prepared to stun Aurors. Oblivate if needed."

"Good, now get on with it."

"_Geminio. Geminio_." Ambrose muttered two times, before tapping on the two Barty-copies one after another, casting the Disillusionment Charm on each of them.

Barty pointed his wand at the doors, and they swung open noiselessly. Double checking that nobody was inside, the four crept in cautiously.

The two duplicates remained at the door, swinging the door close behind them and looking around to ensure the was no one approaching, wands drawn and standing alert, whilst the other two advanced to stand in front of the Goblet of Fire.

Barty handed him an essay—filled with messy, hurried handwriting—to copy the handwriting.

Ambrose bent down on the nearest table, pulling parchment and a quill out. He studied the sample of handwriting given, and tried to copy the handwriting onto another piece of parchment. Ugh. The first try was nowhere near the original. Raising his head, he saw Barty's eyes narrowed in concentration, wand held firmly, and Ambrose thought he heard soft whispers of '_Confundo_' over and over again.

He lowered his head, trying to copy the handwriting again. It was too large. The next was too messy, and the next too neat, and on the fifth try, he got it. Finally, sweet success! The writing looked similar enough though it was not an exact twin. He straightened up.

Barty gave him a sideways glance, mouthing "done?", and Ambrose handed the successful piece to him.

The older man dropped the parchment in with a satisfied grin, and Ambrose dispelled the conjured copies of Moody. With one last backwards glance at the empty Hall, the remaining two snuck out of the Great Hall, spelling the doors back shut silently and crept away.

* * *

**A/N**: I do hope that it's clear enough about when they're speaking French and when they're not, and there aren't any accents because it's hard to read and hard to write.

*-Loads of thanks to SlythrInHermione for helping me spot the errors, and the lovely sentence to show Daphne's annoyance.


	2. And Tension

**Chapter Two**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

"It's—it's him!" Lily choked out after the Beauxbatons students left, having submitted their names into the Goblet during breakfast.

"But it can't be, Lily," Sirius argued.

"Why not?" Lily protested, and Sirius seemed to melt with exasperation. This time, both James and Lily were fully convinced that they had found their long-lost child.

"That messy, unruly black hair and those brilliant green eyes—it's just like Lily's vibrant eyes." James said.

"His name is Ambrose _Eschete_, the both of you. That's a pureblood family as old as the hills. Why would Harry end up with them?" Remus reasoned.

"Besides, green eyes and black hair is common." Sirius added.

"That shade of green is uniquely_ Lily_." James insisted obstinately. "Didn't the Eschete family already die out?"

Sirius rubbed the side of his head, like he had a bad headache. "Don't even go there—I already researched it. There's just one member left, and he lived under a different name until a good six years ago. Sebastien Eschete. No one's seen him before, but the records_ do_ exist. He married his wife, Annabelle, and they apparently had Ambrose."

"That sounds very suspicious." James declared.

"The records are sketchy, James, not even the French government has this information. I only found it because Sebastien lived in Britain for a bit."

"It's still suspicious." Lily said, crossing her arms. "Eschete, they were popular celebrities before the line ended. Why would their last member hide in Britain under another name?"

"How should I know?"

"There're too many holes." James argued.

"Why are you making this so hard?" Sirius sighed. "I just…I just want you two to slow down, please, I _know_ he resembles you two, but that doesn't make anything concrete. Currently, he's a French pureblood celebrity wizard and the odds are just so—small. Yes, there are problems with the story, but that means nothing. Records don't document every single scandal, you know."

The Potters nodded resignedly, seeing the truth in Sirius' words. Most likely, the poor boy would run for the hills if they stomped up to him and said: "I think you're my son."

"There's no use in waiting around here. I'll go talk to him." James said determinedly, a spark growing in his eyes.

"I'll go with you," Sirius volunteered, raising an arm with the little cheerfulness he can muster..

_Dear Bella,_

_I do not appreciate the chunky-looking utensils—your choice is much nicer, but I must admit their Halloween decorations are lovely. Was it the same in your year? Huge pumpkins, live bats, and such. Nothing beats Beauxbatons' wood nymph choirs, of course, but in terms of decorations it'll be the Yule Ball that's the deciding factor._

_Everything at Hogwarts is going smoothly, don't worry. It's so smooth, in fact, that you should hand me a trophy and some presents—_

"Eh, Ambrose," Dominique, a well-built blonde, hollered, interrupted Ambrose's writing. "Two men are looking for you out there."

Slightly irritated at the interruption, he put the quill down and checked that his uniform was presentable. He passed Daphne on the way out, the blonde just exiting the kitchen with a plate of green apples.

When he swung open the door, the first thing he noticed was their badges, neatly pinned on their cloaks.

The men were Aurors.

Ambrose felt a spear of nervousness fly through him, wondering whether he and Barty had been caught tampering with the Goblet of Fire after all. He took a deep breath, willing himself to relax and stepped out of the carriage. "What?" _Real polite, Ambrose_, he mentally scolded himself.

"Uhm…I would just like to know more about you." The bespectacled Auror with hazel eyes said awkwardly.

"Excuse me?" Ambrose frowned, fidgeting on the spot. "Why?"

"I—I…the truth is, I think you're my son."

His companion stared at him with disbelief and muttered, "Merlin, James, you're hopeless!"

"I'm sorry for telling you so abruptly, but…"

Shaking his head as if to regain clarity, Ambrose stared at him as if he had a second head. Now they were the rude ones instead. No, not just rude. They were raving mad. "I'm sorry, but I do not understand. How am I your son?"

"I had a son called Harry Potter. He was kidnapped by a Death Eater when he was about a year old…he had green eyes, just like yours, and my wife Lily."

"That doesn't mean—"

"Look at this," James interrupted, proffering an old photo album, flipping to a rare photo of their short time with Harry. James had the toddler sitting on his knee, and Lily was grasping the toddler's hand. "Don't you think his eyes are awfully similar to you?"

The boy nodded coldly. "Resemblance does not mean anything," he reminded them quietly. "I am of the Eschete family; I have been all my life. There is no reason why I could be a...?"

"Potter," Sirius helpfully supplied. "I'm Sirius Black, and he's James Potter." He'd only just realised now that the boy—Ambrose—didn't even know who they were. Yes, indeed, James had screwed up big time by dropping the bomb three seconds into their first meeting.

Maybe he should have let Remus come with James instead, Sirius sighed silently.

"But who were your parents?" James desperately asked, grasping at straws. "Who—who were they?"

"Bella." Ambrose said without thinking, and both Aurors suddenly stiffened as if they heard a dreaded name. What was so bad about that name? "Annabelle Eschete." he quickly corrected.

"Your father?" Sirius asked, relieved that 'Bella' wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange, his cousin-turned-enemy that had disappeared years ago along with Voldemort. It was still hard to forget the crazed woman, with her mad cackle and unnerving smile.

"I don't know." Ambrose scowled. "Bella hates talking about it."

"You mean...you don't have a father?" Sirius scratched his chin.

Finally, Ambrose felt his irritation reach a boiling point. "Do not imply that I was born out of wedlock!" he snarled, bristling, turning around and stomping back into the Beauxbatons carriage and slammed the carriage door.

"Are those Aurors mad?" Daphne commented. She was still eating her sliced green apples, lazing on a plush armchair. At Ambrose's questioning glance, she added, "You forgot to close the door fully when you left, so the silencing charms didn't trigger. I heard every word."

"Hm. I should be more careful with doors next time." Ambrose said, giving his friend a strained smile. "Madmen. What kind of Auror stomps up to someone and says, Hello, I think you're my kid. Do you think they'll give up if I complain about them?"

"Knowing them, they won't." Daphne stated confidently, devouring yet another crêpe.

"You know them?" Daphne hadn't struck him as the type that would have British _Auror_ friends.

"No, but those two—James Potter and Sirius Black—Mum said they're part of the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore's little fan club; they're the local nutters."

"Along with Neville Longbottom?" Ambrose grinned, his good mood starting to revive again. "I haven't read the British newspaper for some time, but I remember he believed he was some 'destined hero' or something."

"Yes, that's nutter number two." Daphne smirked. "He believes that he's the Prophesied One just because Dumbledore said so."

"A bunch of nutters," Ambrose concluded, and the two broke into laughter.

He reached over to Daphne's platter of apples, plucking one deftly and gobbling it down, before heading towards his room to finish the letter to Bella.

_Woah, I shouldn't have boasted about smooth encounters._ _You know what, two Aurors just spoke to me—one claims that I'm his son—and disregarding the fact that they seem mad, Blaise says that they won't give up._

_Their names are James Potter and Sirius Black. I was shown an old photo and that kid's eyes really look like mine, but it's still so ridiculous. How could a British baby end up in France?_

_I crave __crème brûlée and madeleine. _

_Please send me some? Ambrose_

Folding the letter neatly, stuffing it into an envelope and sealing it with wax, Ambrose went to the carriage's spare room to look for his owl.

* * *

The Great Hall was still decorated as it was in the morning, but the night sky only enhanced the flickering lights. Great pumpkins floated in the air, tipping over their sweet-filled contents every now and then, and live bats circled the air, causing great eerie shadows to form on the walls.

"Don't be impressed." Cho Chang whispered snidely to Ambrose, who was sitting beside her. "They use the same thing every year, and I've been here for seven or eight actually."

"Seven or eight?"

"Yeah, we had a basilisk here in my third year. People were getting petrified, and the school was shut down when a first-year boy was killed."

"Basilisk?" Daphne, who had been listening to the conversation, frowned. "Why would there be a basilisk in the _school_?"

Cho shrugged. "Dumbledore received a lot of flak for not closing the school when the first petrification occurred, and the Ministry didn't know anything until deaths occurred. Hogwarts reopened a year later, so I'm still in seventh year, though I should have graduated already."

"I'm starting to feel a bit…grateful I went to Beauxbatons instead." Daphne muttered with disbelief. "Really, basilisks! However did Draco stand this school?"

No wonder Dumbledore's popularity in Britain had gotten so low. The French reporters didn't report this escapade, for some reason, and he'd never heard of it before the conversation with Cho.

"I would have transferred schools, if I were you." Ambrose declared. "Hogwarts was lucky that most were petrified and there was only one death—it could easily be ten."

"It isn't that easy though." Cho mused. "Mum seriously considered sending me somewhere else, but there aren't many schools for general education. Besides, there's the language barrier to think of."

"I pity you." Daphne said sincerely. "Because from how you related the basilisk incident, it sounds like that wasn't the only abnormal thing that happened."

"And it wasn't," Cho admitted, smiling with a slight tilt of her head. "But Hogwarts once had a pretty solid reputation for good teaching and decent safety before. Though, Dumbledore's known for hiring oddballs. The bad things only started happening when Longbottom entered the school, so we call him Neville Longbottom the Grim."

"The Grim?" Daphne repeated.

"It's a really bad omen over here, an omen of Death.

"What else happened though?" Ambrose said eagerly.

"He entered Hogwarts when I was a second year. That year, Dumbledore kept a Philosopher's Stone—right here in the castle itself. Then, a troll got in the dungeons, the Stone was stolen, one of our professors killed, and some other minor things."

By the time she finished, both Ambrose and Daphne were staring at her as if seeing her in a new light. "Merlin's socks!" Ambrose spluttered. "And this was only the first year?"

"Yes, but you haven't listened to second year yet." Cho said with a wicked grin. "Glideroy Lockhart, do you know him?"

The other two nodded, both having read his famous books before.

"He just disappeared one day, leaving a puddle of blood in the bathroom. Most of us think the basilisk _ate_ him. There's also the one dead student and about six were petrified, I think, my memory is a bit fuzzy on the exact number."

Cho thought for a few more moments. "Should be six, I guess." She concluded. "Then we also had a spread of vanishing sickness, and a Muggle disease they called 'Chicken Pox'. There was also a series of rogue bludgers…and someone got flown into a really violent, sentient tree. Someone trashed the Gryffindor Common Room and during Easter there was this Acromantula rampage too, then—"

"Maybe you should continue another day." Ambrose grimaced. "If you continue, Cho, I think I'll take the first portkey back to France."

"I second that." Daphne chimed in. "The security here sounds appalling."

"I thought the Triwizard Champions were supposed to be brave." Cho teased good-naturedly.

"Well, we don't even know who will be chosen as the champion yet." said Daphne. "Besides, I'm not supposed to be brave."

"Then have you entered your name?" Ambrose asked.

"Yeah, but I doubt I'll be chosen. Most—"

As sudden as the day before, the plates cleared. Dumbledore stood up, and the noisy Hall immediately dropped to silence. Ambrose felt a thrill of tension shoot down his spine, his heartbeat going double and his lips going dry.

"It's starting!" Blaise whispered breathlessly from Ambrose's left.

"The goblet is almost ready to make its decision." Dumbledore said. "I estimate that it needs just one more minute. Now, when the champions' names—"

Daphne smashed her fingers together in anxiety.

"—are called, I would ask them to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through the door behind into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions."

Dumbledore swept the air in front of him with a flourish, and most of the candles were extinguished. The only remaining light sources were the lighted pumpkins, still flicking eerily in the darkness, and the white-blue shining of the Goblet of Fire.

With its brightness, the Fire almost hurt Ambrose's eyes, but he didn't look away. Staring intently into the fire, his gut clenching, his heart lodged somewhere up his throat.

Sparks flew; the fire burned a brilliant orange-red. A long tongue of flame jumped into the air, throwing a piece of charred parchment up. Nimbly, Dumbledore caught it and held it near the Goblet's fire, which had turned blue again.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he announced clearly, "is Victor Krum."

The famous Qudditch player slouched up towards the staff table, and was met with loud applause and cheering.

"Bravo, Viktor!" Karkaoff boomed over the deafening applause. "Knew you had it in you!"

Surely Beauxbatons was next?

Ambrose felt the clenching of his gut even more strongly. Butterflies pranced around in his stomach, rather like the bats that flew around the hall. _Please let it be me_, he chanted silently over and over again, like a mantra.

The clapping and cheering died down.

A second tongue of fire shot into the air—Dumbledore seized the burnt parchment, peering at it over his half-moon glasses. Ambrose wiped away a trickle of sweat on his brow.

"The champions for Beauxbatons," he called, "is Ambrose Eschete."

His mantra _worked! _A wave of thunderous applause swept through the room—it was not quite as loud as Krum's, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Daphne was beaming at him, clapping enthusiastically. "Congratulations," she yelled, but was barely heard through the cheering.

He vaguely felt Blaise pat his back and he thought he saw Cho say something, but it was all too messy to make sense of her words.

Ambrose left the table, sweeping towards the staff table. He heard a distinct shout of "Go Ambrose!" from the redhead who asked for his signature in lipstick, and he turned around, flashing the girl a radiant grin. He never broke his stride throughout, ignoring the intent gazes of James Potter and his wife, entering the next chamber.

This time, the atmosphere in the Hall was almost oppressive. The Hogwarts champion…the one to lead the school to glory.

A third tongue of flame cut through the air.

"The Hogwarts Champion," Dumbledore said, squinting at the words. "is Draco Malfoy."

Roaring with applause, the Slytherin house burst into loud applause, screaming and stomping; manners took a backseat. The rest of the houses also burst into applause, albeit not nearly as loud as the snake house. Ron Weasley cursed, though his voice was lost in the din. He still retained some dislike for the Slytherin, though the rest of his friends had already mellowed out.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore exclaimed after the noise died down. "We now have all three of our champions. I hope that every one of you, including the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, will cheer your champions on and give them every ounce of support—"

The Goblet of Fire crackled quietly and turned red.

Gasps and quiet mutterings sailed through the room, and Dumbledore stopped his speech, the smile sliding from his face.

A fourth tongue of flame danced up, the air fizzling and crackling. Dumbledore caught the fourth parchment as if by reflex. He stared at the singed parchment in his hand. The room was so silent a dropping pin would've been heard, and the perfect still was only occasionally broken by the soft squeaking of the bats.

Dumbledore still stared at the parchment, and it almost seemed like nobody dared to even breathe, instead staring at the aged Headmaster.

He swallowed; cleared his throat, and then he read out: "Neville Longbottom."


	3. They Accuse And Blame-

**Chapter Three**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

Neville blinked heavily, rapidly, as if it would dispel the nightmare that was…this. He must be dreaming or Dumbledore was, or his ears were lying.

A great buzz of words filled the Hall, but Neville was too stunned to react. He was frozen in his seat. People were standing up, craning their heads, all to get a glimpse of him. Professor McGonagall was whispering frantically into Professor Dumbledore's ear. Mechanically, he turned his head around to seek shelter in the most logical person he knew—Hermione.

"I didn't put my name in," Neville choked out. "I didn't even go near the fire!"

Hermione only stared back blankly, her eyes full of questions.

Dumbledore stood up, but this time, no one paid him any attention. "Neville Longbottom! Neville! Up here, if you please!"

"Go on," Hermione whispered, giving Neville a slight push.

Awkwardly, Neville got to his feet, nearly stepping on his own feet, and he started the long, slow walk towards the staff table. It wasn't long, per say, but the thousands of eyes trained on him added length on the floor and weight in his feet. His ears felt like they were burning. The buzzing felt overwhelming, and occasionally, he heard small snippets from some of the louder voices. The Grim, the Grim…without doubt, the residents of Hogwarts would hate him even more than ever.

The teachers were staring at him, and so was Dumbledore. "Well...through the door then, Neville."

Neville did as directed, passing through the door that the previous champions did. The room was small, stuffed with so many portraits of wizards and witches on the walls that the original wallpaper could barely be seen. A fire burned merrily in the fireplace, and he glimpsed the people in the portraits whispering to each other.

Grouped around the fire were the other champions. _Real champions,_ his mind added. Victor Krum, Ambrose Eschete, Draco Malfoy. They looked even more imposing this way, and Neville flinched internally.

A famous Quidditch Seeker, a famous singer, and the last was the son of an influential man…he felt what little scrap of his confidence dissipate into ashes, before being scattered by imaginary wind.

Ambrose looked around when Longbottom walked in—he knew there would be a fourth champion—but pretended not to. "What is it? Do they want us back in the Hall?"

Neville opened his mouth; he closed it. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, I'm the fourth champion, I don't know why? That sounded ridiculously stupid, and instead he stood there speechless staring at the other champions. Luckily, the other two hadn't paid him any attention, and continued staring into the fire as if it were an enigma.

The sound of scurrying feet sounded behind him and Ludo Bagman entered the room. Taking Neville by the arm, he led the boy forward into the room. He squeezed Neville's arm tightly, and was muttering to himself, before looking up. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen," he said, approaching the other three.

"May I introduce—it may seem incredible, but believe me—the fourth Triwizard champion?"

Viktor Krum straightened up, his face darkening rapidly. Draco Malfoy frowned, looking at Bagman as if the ex-Quidditch star had asked him to dance a jig. Ambrose only ran a hand through his already messed up hair, smiled, and said, "Oh, that's not a very funny joke, Mister Bagman."

"Joke?" Bagman echoed, bewildered. "No, no, this isn't a joke. Neville's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire, and I'm being serious here."

Krum's face took on an even darker look, his eyebrows squishing together. Malfoy's frown became increasingly pronounced.

"But there must have been a mistake." Ambrose insisted contemptuously. "How can there be a _fourth_ champion?"

"Well…as I said before, this is extraordinary." Bagman beamed, looking at Neville. "But his name did come out of the goblet, and he's of age…I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out after the Goblet has chosen, you see…It's down in the rules, right there, everyone's obliged to compete—"'

The door opened again, and a large group of people filled in: Professor Dumbledore, Mr Crouch, Professor Karkaoff, Madame Maxime, James Potter, Sirius Black, Professor Moody, Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall. The angry buzzing of the students did not cease even after so long—the drone filled the room before McGonagall closed the door behind her, shutting it with a sharp slam.

"Madame Maxime!" Ambrose immediately said when he spotted the towering woman, sidestepping Longbottom and Bagman to stand beside her. "They say that this boy is to compete with us!"

Madame Maxime drew herself up to her full, considerable height. The top of her handsome head brushed the chandelier lightly, and her gigantic satin-clothed bosom swelled. Her gaze, burningly intense, landed on Neville, who seemed to shrink under her disbelieving gaze. She turned her eyes back to Dumbledore. "What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?"

"I'd rather like to know that myself," Karkaoff said, his smile forced and his blue eyes were beads of ice. "Two Hogwarts champions, Dumbledore? I remember clearly that it was stated there would be one champion for one school—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" His tone told everyone that he did not believe his late statement.

"That is impossible." Madame Maxime stated, resting her enormous, opal-adorned hand on Ambrose's shoulder as if it would make her words carry more weight. "How can Hogwarts have two champions? That is incredibly unfair."

"We were under the impression that there would be one and only one champion per school, Dumbledore, or we would have brought along a much wider choice of candidates." Karkaoff still continued smiling his steely smile, even though the blue beads of his pupils seemed to emit ice. "Will you explain to the rest of us this irregularity?"

Professor Dumbledore looked over his half-moon spectacles, and his eyes showed no discernible emotion. "Neville, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

"No," Neville replied, aware of the suspicious snorts his answer caused.

"Ah, but of course he is lying!" Madame Maxine cried. "Everyone would've wanted the glory—the fame, the prizes—why would he not enter?"

"But…but I wouldn't have dared to—"

"Entering or not entering isn't important." Karkaroff cut in brashly. "Our problem is Hogwarts having two champions! The Goblet is an impartial being…someone must have tampered with it. " His eyes zeroed in on Dumbledore, silently accusing the man.

"Don't blame others for Longbottom's appalling luck, Karkaroff; he has a reputation here for making everything go wrong." Snape said softly, causing McGonagall to glare at him vehemently.

"You have sunk to blaming Longbottom for these coincidences too, Severus? The poor boy didn't even want to be entered in the Tournament!" McGonagall said angrily.

"Thank you, Severus, Minerva." Dumbledore said firmly, a warning for them to focus on the issue at hand. "I do not know how this happened, but I assure everyone that neither I, nor my staff, have tampered with the Goblet."

"It is of course no one from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. If it is not you, nor your staff, the students will not be powerful enough; that is for sure. So if we believe you, we must believe that nobody tampered with the Goblet." Madame Maxime declared.

"And someone must have tampered with it." Karkaoff concluded. "Mr Crouch…Mr Bagman." He said, and his voice was unctuous again. "Our objective judges. Surely you will agree with me when I say this is most irregular?"

"Yes…well, yes, but…" Whipping out a plaid handkerchief, Bagman wiped his boyish face, looking at Mr Crouch, who was standing just outside the firelight, his face eerily shadowed.

"The rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament," Crouch said curtly. "We must follow the rules."

"Barty knows the rule book back to front." Bagman beamed, turning back to face the two foreign Heads, as if that solved the matter. It didn't.

"I insist on resubmitting the names of the rest of my students." Karkaroff scowled, the smile vanishing from his face and his voice was clipped. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"But Karkaroff, you can't set up the Goblet again, it doesn't work like that." Bagman said. "The Goblet of Fire's already gone out, we can't make it light—it won't reignite till the start of the next tournament—"

"—in which Durmstrang will certainly not be competing!" Karkaoff snarled. "We have had so many meetings and negotiations and compromises, and then a fourth champion comes out of nowhere! This goes against tradition itself—and the fairness of the tournament…I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff, you can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete, they've all got to. Binding magical contract…convenient, eh?" Moody growled.

"Convenient? I'm afraid I don't understand…" Karkaroff said warily.

"Someone put Longbottom's name in the goblet knowing he had to compete if it came out." Ambrose said. "Obviously, someone wished to give Hogwarts two bites of the same apple."

"Exactly! This will greatly boost the chances of Hogwarts winning." Madame Maxime scowled.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime, Mr Eschete," Karkaroff bowed in their general directions. " I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards—"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Longbottom," growled Moody, "but…funny thing—I don't hear him saying a word…"

"And why should he complain?" Ambrose argued. "He has the chance to compete now. We have all been hoping to be chosen for weeks and weeks. The honour for our schools…the thousand galleon prize. The prestige—not to mention that Hogwarts will have a much greater chance to win now!"

"But Longbottom never wanted that chance in the first place…you do not know him; he isn't the kind that seeks fame." McGonagall shot back.

"How would you know that he doesn't want the chance? If you are the winner of the tournament, jobs will come flocking to you on their own accord—the money, the fame, the opportunities—this is a chance many would die for!" Madame Maxime said, shaking her handsome head, making the chandelier shake haphazardly.

"Maybe someone's hoping Longbottom is going to die for it." Moody said as if he were discussing the colour of his shoes.

"We all know Professor Moody discovers fifteen plots to murder him every day." Karkaroff said disdainfully. "The Tournament has been revamped, and the Age Line set to prevent mortal danger. Your second champion is seventeen and perfectly qualified. In fact, the only problem here is the appearance of a second champion. Are you seeing things?"

"Seeing things, am I?" Moody repeated. "Imagination, eh? It was a skilled witch or wizard who put Longbottom's name in that goblet."

"Ah, but we all knew that!" Madame Maxime said, throwing up her huge hands, the great opals glittering in the candlelight.

"And there is my reason for being, as you call it, 'seeing things'." Moody said. What could he say to justify that ridiculous statement? Being Moody was _awful._ "They hoodwinked a very powerful magical object! It must have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle the goblet…I guess they submitted Longbottom's name under a fourth school, to make sure he was the only one in the category…"

"From what you say, it must have been a skilled witch or wizard…shall we pretend that all powerful wizards are dark?" Karkaroff gave a short, derisive laugh. "What an ingenious theory, but don't expect the rest of us to place any faith in it—I heard you mistook a carriage clock for a basilisk egg and smashed it to pieces—though I appreciate the amount of thought you have given for this incident, you should understand if we don't take you entirely seriously…"

"It's my job to think the way Dark wizards do—"

"You're not an Auror anymore."

"—as you ought to remember very well, Karkaroff…"

"Alastor!" Dumbledore warned. "How this situation arose, we do not know. It seems to me, however, that we have no other choice but to accept it. Both Draco and Neville have been chosen to compete in the tournament, so they shall."

"Ah, but Dumbledore—"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

Madame Maxime did not speak, instead crossing her arms and glaring at Dumbledore with her huge eyes. Karkaroff was livid; the three champions looked disgruntled; everyone else was looking worried and apprehensive with the exception of Bagman. Instead, he looked positively excited, rubbing his hands together and beaming a hundred-watt smile at no one in particular. "Got to give our champions their instructions, yes? Barty?"

Mr Crouch blinked heavily for a few times, before looking towards Bagman as if he was coming out of his musings. "Yes," he finally said. "Instructions…yes, the first task…instructions."

He shuffled into the firelight, and Ambrose thought he looked positively ill. Of course, he could guess why.

"The first task is designed to test a combination of your knowledge, spell prowess, potions and ability to stay calm under a crisis—"Neville's already pale face seemed to go whiter than a unicorn's coat.

"Staying level headed is an important quality indeed…very important. The first task is something of an obstacle course. The rest shall be told to you on the day itself. The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges."

"Champions cannot ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. They will only be armed with their wands for this task…they'll receive information about the second task right after the first. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

Mr Crouch turned and looked at Dumbledore. "I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so." Dumbledore said, frowning in concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, no, Dumbledore. I must hurry back to the Ministry. Such a busy and difficult time now…I've left young Weatherby in charge…so very enthusiastic, if a bit overenthusiastic, to be honest…"

"You'll have a drink before you go, at least?"

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" said Bagman brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!"

"No, Ludo." Crouch said, slightly impatient.

"Professor Karkaroff…Madame Maxime—a nightcap?" Dumbledore offered, but Madame Maxime had already steered Ambrose out of the room swiftly, talking rapidly in French as they went off into the Great Hall. The tones of their voices made it apparent that they were not very happy. Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they similarly left but in silence, and ignored Dumbledore. The rest of the professors left, presumably to their duties.

"Neville, Draco, I suggest you go up to bed." Dumbledore said, smiling at both of them. "I'm sure Gryffindor and Slytherin are waiting to celebrate with you."

Draco swept out of the room without another glance back, and Neville shambled out behind him. The Great Hall was deserted; most of the candles had been extinguished, and the remaining ones had burnt low, leaving the room in danger of plunging into utter darkness, casting ghostly shadows over the normally bright Hall.

"This Tournament's isn't very suitable for you, is it?" Draco said without looking back, the tip of his wand lit with a small glow. "Potions…staying calm, spell prowess. Merlin knows you can't cast a _stupefy_."

Neville felt sorely tempted to say that, no, he could cast one, but was too astonished that Draco Malfoy was talking to him. Civilly, if a bit insulting. "I never wanted to join in the first place." He mumbled instead. The words seemed strangely loud in the silence.

"Pity. Draco said with no pity in his voice. "At least you haven't caused any deaths yet, Longbottom. I'm quite sure Pansy is going to make some badges…I'll send you and your friends a few." He took the steps down to the dungeons, while Neville reached for the marble staircase.

Maybe everyone was right and he _was_ bad luck personified after all.

Somehow, the thought of the Triwizard Tournament sent excitement through his veins, but it was almost immediately squashed down an impending sense of doom. If he won—if he won, the glory would be like no other; Grandmother would be so proud of him at last…

But he also remembered that he would never win.

In fact, most likely the tournament would make a fool out of him in front of the whole school. And, well, he stood no chance against the three champions. The image of the three champions, ringed around the fireplace impressively, floated into his mind again.

The Fat Lady's portrait hung in front of him, and the lady was not alone. "Well, well, well…Violet's just told me everything." She smiled sympathetically at him.

Neville fumbled with a piece of parchment. "Balderdash," he read, and the portrait swung open on its hinges. A blast of noise boomed in Neville's ears—he flinched, covering his ears, and about a dozen pairs of hands reached over to him, wrenching him inside unceremoniously. They were screaming, applauding, whistling, and smiling.

"Go, Neville!" Ron Weasley boomed, striding over and giving Neville a firm clap on the back. "It may not be me, but at least it's a Gryffindor! Kick that Slytherin prat's ass!"

The entire room was smiling at Neville for the first time. Nobody made mention of 'Longbottom the Grim' or said negative things. Suddenly he felt much more optimistic about the entire situation—his housemates were still rooting for him.

The bubble of excitement welled up in Neville again, but this time it took longer for the doom to vaporise it.

* * *

A/N: Ambrose will never really become friends with Hermione\Ginny\Ron and all that. He'll have some contact with them, sure, but he doesn't necessarily like them much.

The whole Ambrose-is-famous-thing isn't put there just for kicks, and it should become clearer sometime into the story. He isn't very popular in Wizarding Britian yet, but more people than only Ginny have asked him for signatures and all that—those parts just aren't written out.

Edit: Whoops, I think I wasn't right in the head yesterday, with all the Potter\Longbottom confusions and I forgot linebreaks too. Sorry and all fixed~ :x


	4. He Turns

**Chapter Four**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

Madame Maxime looked at Ambrose, her face grave, both of them standing under the moonlight, and the plain was void of anyone else.

"You must realise that this Tournament is very important to Beauxbatons." Madame Maxime, still speaking French, said quietly. "Because of our emphasis on music and the arts, many label us as a frivolous school."

"It is not frivolous." Ambrose said at once. "It is well-rounded."

"Yes. Just because we teach things like dance and speech…" Madame Maxime said indignantly, shaking her handsome head. "But the rest think that makes up all of our classes. They think that we are useless in terms of combat. Reputation is very important. If we win this Tournament, Ambrose…no one would think of calling us frivolous."

"I will try my best." Ambrose promised. "But the odds are against us with the fourth champion."

"Indeed, but we can hope. And…I will do my best to help you, if you agree?" Madame Maxime said with a tad of nervousness. When she received a nod from the boy, she broke into a pleased smile. "I do not know anything yet, but I will tell you as soon as I find out."

"Thank you, Headmistress. I'll try my best too. Do you think Hogwarts' library is as good as Beauxbatons'?"

"I do not know," she admitted, shaking her head. "But if you need any specific books not in the Hogwarts library, tell me. I shall have them sent over, though it will take a few days to reach Hogwarts."

"Thank you," Ambrose repeated. Madame Maxime nodded, muttering something about 'Karkaroff' and 'complaints'. Ambrose swung open the carriage door, intent on puzzling over the First Task.

A large purple and black banner unravelled—in the middle was a red and black butterfly with purple highlights; the Ensolplion insignia. When Ambrose pushed the banner to the side, ducking under it and entering the Beauxbatons carriage, he wondered if he was in the wrong one somehow. The interior had been completely revamped from the original one. The walls were coloured a dark royal purple and the corners were outlined with black and red. A small crowd of about five people were milling about and butterflies roamed above their heads.

"Ambrose!" Blaise beamed, and he held up a bottle. "Mulled mead!"

"Or there's some Butterbeer here." Dominique said, pointing to a large table filled with foamy cups. "It's really popular here; you can get them at the town nearby."

"Whoa…" Ambrose muttered warily. "Why are you all drinking mead and beer here? Headmistress' will have your head when she sees this."

"She gave us permission." Lucinde said, chomping away on a bit of strawberry. "She said that our curfews were extended till three in the morning, and the carriage must be spotlessly clean and in its original form by six a.m."

"Three in the morning?" he said sceptically. "She wasn't even that generous for Yule…"

"Well, you know what I guess?" Blaise slurred. "She's Ensolplion's head of house. You're from her house. She's happy, we're happy. Yay."

"I am still kind of miffed you all started so early though." Ambrose said, settling down with a glass of mulled mead and a plate of fresh fruit.

"Wouldn't have wanted to waste the long curfew…" Blaise said, swiping a blueberry from his friend's plate. "Don't worry; if you win the Triwizard, no one will start without you…we can lord it over Pierryere forever."

"I am heavily offended, Zabini." Dominique declared. "Pierryere will forever be the better house."

House rivalries, Ambrose sighed. He took no note of the squabbling pair, instead pouring himself more mead.

A good thirty minutes later, his eyelids felt heavy. Blaise and Dominique was still arguing, the drone of their voices slowly becoming background noise. He closed his eyes, exhausted.

* * *

The Beauxbatons students were trooping up to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime in front at eight a.m. for breakfast.

"I can't believe you _slapped_ me." Ambrose complained, rubbing his sore cheek.

"And a _Slug-Vomiting Charm_ on me." Blaise added.

"What's wrong with that?" Daphne sniffed haughtily. "Headmistress said we could use any means to wake the sleeping pigs."

"It's unfair." Blaise scowled, his complexion still sallow from the charm. "Why didn't you give me a slap too? I'd rather that than vomiting slugs."

"Variety is the spice of life." Daphne said uncomfortably.

"Where were you all last night, anyways?" Ambrose asked. There were only a few people left in the carriage yesterday by the time he got there.

"The Wizarding village near Hogwarts. It's called Hogsmeade, I think."

Madame Maxime opened the great golden doors, and she marched up to the Staff Table, still unhappy about the fourth champion fiasco from the day before.

"We don't have to sit at Ravenclaw today, right?" Blaise said, looking around the Hall.

"Yes, but where else?" Ambrose muttered.

"Slytherin." Daphne said immediately, already walking towards the rather crowded table.

With a bit of squeezing and pushing, the three got seats at the Slytherin table.

"Blaise, Daphne, Ambrose." Draco said, nodding curtly in turn.

"Pansy!" Daphne cried, reaching across the table and hugging the girl, while Blaise turned to talk with Theodere Nott.

"It's been a long time." Draco said, addressing Ambrose.

"Don't be so cold." Ambrose remarked, having difficulty linking the old Draco and the current one together.

"I believe it is called maturity, doofus." Draco said with a hint of a smile.

"Who's the one calling me doofus then?" Ambrose pointed out.

"Me, and that's no sign of immaturity."

"I suppose," Ambrose conceded, taking a toast and scrambled eggs. "How is Hogwarts treating you? Cho told me all about the misfortunes that happened. Basilisks and trolls and dying professors; how lovely."

Amusement dancing in his eyes, Draco smirked. "I know very much about a few of them, just like how you know very much about Longbottom's_ fire_?"

"Aha! So you've finally been let onto the great mystery?" Ambrose beamed. "But we must leave the riddles for later."

"I have a free period later on, at three."

"I suggest the library."

"At the Restricted Section. Excellent." Draco finished. Plans made, he turned the conversation to a less dangerous subject. "How's your life been at Beauxbatons then?"

"Just like yours—but more dull, the place is nicer, and the subjects are much more interesting."

"Really? I heard that it was a very—" Draco decided not to put it offensively. "—artistically-inclined school."

"Well, truthfully it is, but that is what he wanted." Ambrose chewed on his spoon unconsciously. "He thought Beauxbatons would train me and the other two into some…some dignified, elegant young man with a sliver tongue."

It was almost alarming, how so many aspects of his life were so closely intertwined with Voldemort and his many plots that he could barely talk with Draco without the conversation veering towards the Dark Lord.

"I think he would be sorely disappointed." Draco noted, his eyes trained on the spoon in distaste. "If that is what you've been learning."

"It's not, but I can't help myself."

"Maybe you should ask my father for lessons." Draco suggested.

Ambrose shot him a look that said, "Seriously?"

"I think it's an excellent suggestion." Draco maintained. "Both of us had abominable table manners, but now—look who's chewing on spoons and who's acting with perfect decorum?" Ambrose didn't answer, but he stabbed a piece of lettuce unnecessarily hard, causing Draco's mirth to double.

* * *

It was three in the afternoon, and after much asking and getting lost, Ambrose finally found the library. He had asked the librarian for directions to the Restricted Section, along with permission to enter. To his great dismay, Draco Malfoy was already lounging in the uncomfortable wood chairs by the time he arrived. Ambrose slid into the chair opposite the blonde.

"Are you sure it's okay to talk here?" Ambrose muttered. "Seems like anyone could walk in here."

"It's the quietest and the most deserted, unless you want to sit in an abandoned classroom—and I'm not going to sit in one." Draco scowled, removing his wand. "_Homenum Revelio_. And as you can see, there's nobody here under invisibility cloaks."

"Great," Ambrose smiled. "So Lucius finally told you about him?"

"Only at the start of this year. He had a special job for me…"

"Special?"

"I'm not allowed to tell you, though he says you'll be involved a bit later in the year." Draco said sullenly. "Not that I want to do it."

"It's a nasty one?" Ambrose said sympathetically.

"Quite nasty to me." Draco said unenthusiastically. "But Father said his future purpose for me will be the same as his. Ministry, all that. He says that if I finish my job at Hogwarts, I _might_ be able to escape being a Ministry worker."

"Do you believe it will work? His plan, I mean."

Draco twisted his fingers around each other nervously. "But…but we do not know his real agenda, after all…"

"Is it not to take over Wizarding Britain?"

"Yes, but I do not know how he will make that happen at all."

"It is not our place to question," Ambrose said, shrugging. "That's what Bella always says."

"I want to question." Draco said hotly, after a moment of indecision. "Someone, it seems that I've been _born_ into servitude. I wanted to be a Potions Master…brewing all day, opening a shop…it's also very profitable, but _no,_ I'd better enter the Ministry and climb the ranks."

"I echo that sentiment."

"He's so powerful, and he has so many followers. All waiting, biding their time…I don't get why he doesn't rush in and take over just like that."

"Rebels. He says that—"

"Oh, Ambrose," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Everyone's heard that rebel thing and no one believes it. Do you really think a few rebels could stop him?"

"Dumbledore still holds a lot of sway internationally. It won't be only a few."

"Even so, he's a laughing stock now. So he should attack now, instead of biding his time." Draco complained bitterly. "And because he waited, I missed my chance to take Alchemy at Hogwarts."

"It was because Dumbledore destroyed something very precious of his." Ambrose divulged in a fit of trust. "He found out and freaked out—he's been overestimating Dumbledore ever since."

Draco peered at him suspiciously. "I haven't heard _that_ before. Then why is he asking me to—"

"To?" Ambrose prompted when the blonde didn't continue his sentence.

"Never mind. What you say still sounds unlikely though."

"Believe it or not; it's your choice." Ambrose said loftily. "But, remember, keep it a secret, or he might just murder me."

"Maybe I should yell it out loud, then he'd kill you, and I'll have one less competitor at the Tournament." Draco joked.

"I'll set my horse on you." Ambrose promised, smiling. "He likes eating blonde hair."

"I'll just stay far away from France, then," Draco said, unperturbed by the news. "How's your research for Triwizard going along?"

"I haven't started. But it's terribly vague, you know. Knowledge can encompass everything from Transfiguration to Herbology to Astronomy."

"Aha, but I've got an edge here. Potions is my best subject, and Crouch said it'd come out." Draco said absently, digging around his robe pocket. "Here." He fished out a small tin. "It's our first batch of badges. We were going to give them out next week after we made more, but you can see them first."

"Badges?"

Draco shook a badge out and handed them to Ambrose. 'Support Draco Malfoy—the real Hogwarts Champion' was printed on it in large red letters. "Press on it," he demonstrated, and the badge turned puke green. 'Down with Longbottom the Grim'.

"Ingenious," Ambrose said, turning over the badge. "But I think it needs something more."

"Like?"

Ambrose made a small coughing sound that sounded suspiciously like 'Beauxbatons'.

* * *

It was next Tuesday when Draco and the rest of the Slytherins had finally churned out enough badges to be passed around the school.

"Thirty badges." Draco announced triumphantly, showing them a glowing red 'Support Draco Malfoy' badge. "All fully charmed." He pressed on it, and the red swapped for blue. The writing now said 'Support Ambrose Eschete' and when he pressed on it once more, changed to a purple 'Support Victor Krum'. "And the last is 'Down with Longbottom', of course."

"They're sort of neat," Daphne said, looking mildly impressed, as was Blaise.

"I'll give you three a few each." Draco said, still looking smug. "Make sure to pass them around; I'm sure there will be high demand."

That day, at the start of dinner, Ambrose slid into the seat beside Cho Chang's.

"Oh, you're wearing one of those too?" she said, pointing at the shining red badge he had pinned to his blazer. His uniform was the standard blue, and the badge stood out prominently.

"It looks nicer on my uniform blue." Ambrose grinned, poking the badge and causing it to turn a shade of powder blue.

"I've been wanting one of those ever since they appeared this morning."

"You're in luck. It's my second last one." Ambrose said, his smile getting larger, if that was possible. He fished out a badge. "But don't wear 'Down with Longbottom' when the teachers are present. I heard Crabbe got detention for it during Transfiguration."

"I'll remember. Thanks." Cho beamed, holding out a hand for it. Ambrose dropped it in her palm, and she immediately pinned it on.

"Do you think I could have your last one?" A girl sitting across from Cho asked.

"Ah, I'm quite sorry, miss…?"

"Edgecombe, Marietta Edgecombe."

"Miss Edgecombe," Ambrose said apologetically. "I'm saving that one for Longbottom, but I'll make sure to give you one as soon as Draco makes more."

"It's okay, thanks." Marietta said.

"So Draco's the one making these?" Cho asked, examining her own badge. "I never knew he was so gifted at Transfiguration and Charms."

"The Goblet did choose him out of so many others for a reason, after all." Ambrose muttered.

"I like this purple one most, but it's for Victor Krum."

"Why not try a Colour Change Charm?" Ambrose suggested.

"Do you think it'll work on transfigured objects?" Cho said doubtfully.

"You can try," Ambrose said, rising from his seat. "I'm going to give Longbottom the last one now then. Dinner is almost over, wouldn't want to miss the chance…" he said vaguely, leaving his seat hurriedly.

Minutes later, there was a commotion over at Gryffindor table; Ron Weasley looked fit to kill. Even though the Ravenclaw table was quite a distance away, they could hear him yelling, clear as a bell.

"—Malfoy doesn't even deserve to be champion—"

Professor McGonagall was already walking towards her House's table. Hermione was frantically hitting Ron's elbow. "Sit down—Ron—sit down!" she hissed to no avail. Everyone at the table was sitting down except for him, and he looked even more noticeable with his reddened face.

"What is the meaning of this, Weasley?" McGonagall said, livid.

"That badge!" Ron raged.

"I'm very sorry, Professor…I was showing to them Draco's beautiful transfiguration, but he did not like it very much." Ambrose said coolly before the other boy could say any more, showing McGonagall the badge, which he had quickly switched to 'Support Draco Malfoy'.

"Is that so?" McGonagall said sceptically. She had seen too many fights to believe that were his true intentions, but Weasley _had _largely overreacted.

"No! Professor, he asked Neville to take it."

"And what, Mr Weasley, is wrong with asking him to support a fellow student?"

Ron's mouth opened and closed a few times, like a fish out of water. He was trying to say that the badge could switch to 'Down with Longbottom', but somehow the words didn't come out.

* * *

A/N: I'm thinking Lily should pop up next chapter. Was the conversation between Ambrose and Draco weird? It felt sort of weird.


	5. A Corner

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

"Antidotes." Snape said, looking around at the class, his black eyes gleaming malevolently. "You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we shall select someone on whom to test one…"

Snape stared at Neville, his eyes boring into the boy, who gulped and looked away hastily. Neville was moderately sure that he wouldn't survive Potions today. Snape would poison him, and his badly brewed antidote would do nothing. Normally, he'd say that a professor would never let him die, but Snape's poison sneer made him believe otherwise.

There was a knock on the dungeon door; Colin Creevey poked his head into the room, an eager smile on his face. He beamed at Neville before walking up to Snape's desk.

"Yes?" Snape said curtly.

"Sir, I'm supposed to take Neville Longbottom upstairs." Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin menacingly, and the boy's eager smile dimmed.

"Longbottom has another hour of Potions to complete. He will come upstairs when this class is finished." _Or when I'm poisoned in the Hospital Wing_, Neville added mentally.

"Sir—sir, Mr Bagman wants him," Colin said nervously. "All the champions need to go; I think they want to take photographs."

"Very well, very well." Snape snapped, shooting a deadly glare at Neville. "Longbottom, leave your things here. I want you back down here later to test your antidote."

"Please, sir—he's got to take his things with him," Colin squeaked in a small voice. "All the champions…"

"Very well! Longbottom—take your bag and get out of my sight!"

Neville grabbed his bag and almost ran for the door, ignoring the numerous 'Down with Longbottom' that flashed at him; he slammed the door behind him with Colin in tow.

"It's amazing, though, isn't it?" Colin said the moment the dungeon door closed. "You being champion?"

"It's amazing…but I think Snape hates me even more." Neville muttered as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. "What do they want photos for, Colin?"

"The Daily Prophet, I think! I saw Rita Skeeter there."

"Oh." Neville said dully. He didn't know whether to grin or grimace. He'd enjoy being on the Prophet, of course, but Rita Skeeter's articles were viciously defamatory.

"Good luck!" Colin said cheerily when they reached the right room. Neville smiled back and knocked on the door, entering.

It was one of the abandoned classrooms. The room had been cleaned, the desks pushed to the back of the room and leaving a large space in the middle. Three tables had been placed together and covered with a piece of velvet, and five chairs were set behind the desks. The dingy room was fairly filled—Ludo Bagman was talking animatedly with Rita Skeeter. Krum was, as always, slouching moodily in a corner alone. Malfoy and Eschete were in conversation.

Neville scowled to himself, still remembering the badges. Bagman spotted Neville, and bounded forward eagerly. Rita Skeeter followed closely behind, her pale green eyes glittering with the opportunity.

"Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Neville, in you come…there's nothing to worry about. It's just the wand weighing ceremony. The rest of the judges will be arriving in a moment—" Bagman ushered him into the middle of the room.

"Wand weighing? It's not a test, is it?" Neville repeated nervously. Why else would there be judges? He seemed to have heard the phrase somewhere before, but could not remember what it meant for the life of him.

"Oh, no, no. It's to check that your wands are all fully functional, no problems, you know…after all, they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead. Our expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. After that, we'll have a little photo shoot—"

"Pitiful." Ambrose commented to Draco. "Dumbledore not telling you about the Goblet of Fire was possible…but he does not even know about the Weighing?"

"—could have a little word with Neville before we start? He's the fourth—"

"That's Dumbledore for you. Lucky Father tells me what he can." Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I think tomorrow's Daily Prophet will be interesting."

"Rita Skeeter is always interesting when she's on your side." Ambrose said, his eyes following Longbottom and Skeeter closely. "Remember The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore?"

"Who wouldn't? A biography published before death. That's practically unheard of, for Skeeter."

"She said would have a second part up _after_ death this time. But I think she'll need to write at least two more books by the time he dies. Dumbledore produces crazy ideas by the buckets."

"Speaking of crazy ideas," Draco said in a more serious tone. "I heard from Snape that the foreign students will be attending classes with the sixth years starting next Monday."

"What? With the sixth years?" Ambrose said, his brows rising. "For what?"

"I'm not very sure, but Snape said something about the foreign students not neglecting their studies."

"But we are already having self-study sessions and homework from our teachers ." Ambrose said incredulously. "What about the classes that Hogwarts don't teach, then?"

Suddenly, the door opened. Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Crouch and Bagman all entered the room one after another, heading straight for the velvet-covered table. A moment later, the door swung open again. James Potter, Lily Potter, and Sirius Black filed in quietly.

"Move in, gentlemen, move in." Ludo Bagman said to the champions, pointing to the chairs set by the door.

"That's why I said it was a crazy idea." Draco shrugged as he and Ambrose moved towards the chairs. Surly Victor Krum was already seated in the first. "Snape said the details would be announced soon during—"

"Merlin's filthy socks!" Ambrose cursed. "Why are they here?"

"Who?"

Ambrose inclined his head towards the group of three standing in a corner. "The Aurors are supposed to be here, but the redhead shouldn't be." Their furtive, short glances towards him told him what he already knew—she was here for a little conversation with him.

"The one with red hair is our Charms Professor, Lily Potter." Draco surveyed the group critically. "Why is she here? It's class time now—shouldn't she be teaching?"

"I've got an idea why." Ambrose sighed, stealing a glance at the group. He had been avoiding James Potter and his wife ever since the disastrous conversation with the former. Their feeble attempts to approach him right after meals always failed, but he didn't see how he could escape the Weighing.

Dumbledore and Ollivander came down the stairs, in deep conversation.

"I am NOT a filthy hoodwinker!" Neville said loud enough for everyone outside the broom cupboard to hear.

Dumbledore turned on his feet, disappearing and reappearing outside the broom cupboard smoothly with a tiny 'crack'. He pulled the door open, revealing Neville and Rita Skeeter squeezed together in the confined space, almost as if they were about to snog. Peering down at the both of them, he seemed to be strangely amused. Ambrose caught Skeeter's hands furiously working to keep away her Quick-Quotes Quill.

"Dumbledore!" Rita Skeeter cried delightedly, snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she said, standing up and looking him in the eye. "I hope you saw my lovely piece about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference over the summer."

"Enchantingly nasty," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with forced effort. "I rather enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete cretin dingbat nut that should be removed from my position as Headmaster."

Rita Skeeter only smiled her crocodile smile.

"I was just emphasising that your ideas are all going against evidence, Dumbledore, and how you repeatedly place students in danger by—"

"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind your rudeness, Rita," Dumbledore said with a courteous bow and a smile, "but we shall have to discuss the matter over some tea later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot if our fourth champion here is stashed in a broom cupboard."

Neville hurried out of the broom cupboard, glad to put distance between Skeeter and himself. With a start, he realised that the other three champions were now seated in chairs near the door, and the room had been filled up with people. He shuffled to the last remaining seat and planted himself beside Ambrose, making sure to leave ample space between the two of them. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner, beside the photographer. She slipped the parchment and poison-green quill out of the bag again.

Dumbledore took his place at the judges' table. "May I introduce Mr Ollivander?" he addressed the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

An old wizard with large pale eyes stood by the window quietly. He turned around, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

"Monsieur Eschete, could we have you first, please?"

Ambrose swept over to Ollivander and handed him his wand.

"Hmm…" he said, turning the wand over. He twirled the wand between his long fingers, like a baton, and purple sparks flew out of the tip. He held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

"Aspen," he acknowledged. "A wood white as ivory…very prized, yes, excellent at duelling and charmwork…twelve inches, springy…and containing…dear me…runespoor fang?"

"A fang from one of my Runespoors…Mother used to keep them."

"Yes," Ollivander said, "yes, I've used Runespoor fangs myself before, but the wand was a bit deadly…however, to each his own…a Richelieu wand, I assume…it's in fine condition, though if you do not mind, the polish sold at my shop is much better…not so thick, you see…"

"I will stop by one day,"

Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, seemingly checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

"Very well, very well. It's in fine working order." He said, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Ambrose with his wand. "Mr Malfoy, you next."

"Ah, now. This is one of mine, isn't it?" Ollivander said enthusiastically. "Yes, I remember it well. Made from hawthorn wood…stepped on a bunch of hawthorn berries, got my shoes all wet. Unicorn hair core, precisely ten inches…reasonably pliant. Also in fine condition, I see…"

Neville looked down at his own wand, which was smeared with finger marks. Compared to Eschete's shining ivory wand and Malfoy's spotlessly clean one, his own was in terrible condition. Surreptitiously, he grabbed some of his robe and tried to rub it clean to no avail. Red sparks flew out of the tip. Ambrose shot him a patronising look, and he quickly stopped, pretending nothing had happened.

"Excellent, excellent," Ollivander sent a stream of green smoke rings around the room from the tip of Draco's wand. He pronounced himself satisfied, and called Viktor Krum up.

Viktor Krum got up morosely, slouching towards Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling with his hands firmly planted in his robe pockets.

"Hmm, this is a Gregorovich creation, unless I'm much mistaken. A fine wand-maker, truly…a fine one, though the styling is quite a bit…however styling matters not…" He lifted the wand, examining it minutely. "Hornbeam and dragon heartstring?"

Krum nodded wordlessly.

"Rather thicker than the norm…quite rigid, ten and a quarter inches…in great condition. Avis!"

With a bang rivalling Weasley fireworks, a crowd of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and circled around the room before escaping through the open window.

"Good," said Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves… Mr Longbottom."

Neville got to his feet and walked past Krum to Ollivander. He handed over his wand.

"Ah, yes," said Ollivander, his pale eyes roaming over the thin wand. "Yes, yes. How well I remember. One of mine…your second wand, if my memory serves me…

"Second wand?" Rita Skeeter piped up from her corner, latching onto the phrase like piranha to blood. "Why did he need a second wand?"

"Why?" Ollivander seemed taken aback by the question. "He broke it; of course…that's almost always why people buy new wands."

"How—"

"Rita, please," Dumbledore said with a pronounced frown. "Questions can come after."

"Cherry wood, thirteen inches, fairly flexible…contains a unicorn hair core. I still remember it well, a fine female unicorn in the Craik forest…" A piece of long blue ribbon flew out of the wand tip. "In excellent working condition, but I suggest you polish it every now and then…"

"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, standing up. "You may go back to your lessons now, or perhaps it would be faster to just go down to dinner, for they are about to end—"

Neville hopped off his chair, starting towards the door, and the photographer jumped up and cleared his throat, pointing to the large black camera he was holding.

"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" Bagman cried excitedly. "All the judges, Aurors, and champions. What do you think, Rita?"

"Yes, let's do those first." Rita Skeeter agreed, looking at the champions. "And then some individual shots."

The photographs took an absurdly long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow whenever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame. In the end, she received a permanent sitting position in the middle and everyone else took their places around her. The photographer seemed keenest to have Krum and Ambrose at the front. Krum skulked half-hidden at the back of the group, however, to the exasperation of the photographer. Rita Skeeter then insisted on individual shots of the champions, before getting a single shot of the 'three true champions' together. At last, they were free to go, but Rita Skeeter held the three champions back.

"Just a few words from the three of you, that's all." Skeeter assured. "Your thoughts on the fourth champion?"

"Terrible. It is simply unfair to the other two schools." Viktor Krum scowled before slouching out of the tiny room without a second look backwards. The door slammed, and the room was empty except for Rita Skeeter, Ambrose and Draco.

"For someone sorted into the house of bravery, he is awfully cowardly. Besides that, he seems a bit too happy for someone that has been entered into the tournament unwillingly." Ambrose said, and Rita Skeeter turned to Draco expectantly.

"Longbottom's nickname in the school is the _Grim_." Draco said bluntly. "And this name is well-founded. I merely hope that he does not ruin things for the…proper champions with his awful luck. Ambrose here is right; that boy is afraid of his own shadow."

Skeeter's eyes lit up like Christmas bulbs. "_The Grim_, you say? The Grim? Could you please tell us more about it?"

"Very unlucky things have happened ever since Longbottom entered the school. Just like the basilisk incident, most of the happenings originated because of him; things like deaths, illnesses and accidents. You should ask some of the other students, if you wish to know more."

"Pansy Parkinson, Theodere Nott, Tracey Davis…" Draco listed out.

"And if you want input from a student that has been here before Longbottom, Cho Chang can help you."

"Thank you, the both of you." Rita beamed sharply, stuffing her Quick-Quotes Quill and the writing-filled parchment into her crocodile-skin bag, deftly snapping it shut with her two-inch nails. " Be sure to read the Prophet tomorrow!" she called as she left. Ambrose and Draco followed after her out of the room.

Lily Potter was waiting outside.

Ambrose narrowed his eyes, and the two stopped in their tracks. There was a short moment of silence before Lily spoke up.

"Can I speak to you, Ambrose, please?" Lily said, wringing her hands nervously. "Alone?"

Silently, he nodded. Draco muttered to him, "I'll go down for dinner, then," and left, leaving Ambrose and Lily alone in the otherwise-deserted corridor.

He looked into the green eyes that resembled his own pair so, and waited for the other to speak.

Lily took a deep breath. "First off, I wanted to tell you that I'm—we're—sorry. I know James was a bit impulsive, but he was just overwhelmed by his emotions."

"Claiming someone to be your son despite all the facts pointing otherwise is only 'a bit impulsive'?"

"Please, you must understand. We've been searching for him since more than a decade ago. He hasn't come to Hogwarts, despite everything. We decided that the only possible reason would be that he was in a foreign school." A gloss of tears appeared in her eyes; she quickly blinked it away. "Then you appeared. Someone that's Harry's age." She smiled hesitantly. "My most distinctive feature is my eyes, and James' ruffled hair is his. When both traits appeared in you, well, we just threw all logic aside."

"But you _do _know that it is impossible for me to be your son?"

She was quiet for a moment, as if internally debating her answer. "No," Lily concluded determinedly. "We found out from Ginny all about you."

"Ginny?"

"She asked for your signature, in bright red lipstick, I believe…your biggest fan. Ginny said your birthday was on thirty-first July. Thirty-first of July was Harry's birthday too!"

Ambrose almost flinched at the mention of the overzealous witch. He still remembered her most recent disastrous attempt to invite him to Hogsmeade. "There are so many people in this world. Being born on the same day is hardly anything important."

"But don't you see? You two have the same birthdates, similar appearance, and the same age…the Wizarding community isn't a very large place, Ambrose." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "There aren't coincidences that large."

"Why do you insist he is alive?" Ambrose said brusquely. "He was taken by a Death Eater when he was one year old. One! Vastly experienced Aurors have gone in alive and came out dead—what makes you think your child survived?"

"A welfare clock. Harry's name has never pointed to 'Dead'. That's how I know."

"And where else does it point?" he said sceptically.

"A blank space. That means he's _not_ dead. Not dead." Lily repeated firmly.

"Magic can go haywire sometimes—"

"And don't talk about magic going haywire! Everyone insists he's dead, that the clock was faulty. I don't see anyone else's charms going wrong, or the Weasleys' clock showing wrong predictions." Lily fumed, crossing her arms.

"Then remove the clock from the equation. Do you really think your child would have been spared?"

"Yes," Lily insisted obstinately. "The Death Eater that kidnapped Harry—we knew him. He could have had a change of heart. Maybe he was imperiused, and he fought the curse. Peter was found dead the next day. Who knows, maybe he really was imperiused? There are so many possible explanations."

"And all of them are unlikely." Ambrose snorted, annoyed with the woman's insistence. He stalked off back to the Great Hall rudely, ignoring her calls and pleas. Normally, he was rather patient, but being in the company of these Potters seemed to make him blow his top every time.

* * *

A/N: Man, I really wanted to add in the next part,but it's already at 3000+ words.

Please review. :)


	6. To Face A Cheat-

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

He entered the Beauxbatons carriage's main hall, where many students were relaxing after dinner.

"You missed dinner." Daphne said the moment she spotted him, and Blaise looked up from his papers.

"There was a pest hindering me again, I'm afraid." Ambrose sighed, flopping into the spare armchair near them.

She nodded sympathetically, knowing what he was talking about. "I got you some food from the kitchen, though they're fruits again. It's all the kitchen has."

"Thanks," Ambrose grinned at the considerate gesture, taking from her the box of fruits.

"There was an important announcement just minutes ago, you know." She added.

"Hm?

"Inter-school classes. Starting next week, we have the choice to go for Hogwarts lessons. Apparently our seventh year corresponds to their sixth year classes, because we take OWL exams after six years and not five like them. The lessons aren't compulsory, though."

"What's the catch?"

"The teachers back at Beauxbatons have prepared mountains of homework for us. We either go for lessons or we do the homework." Daphne frowned and held up a thick stack of parchment. "Headmistress already gave them all out—yours is with me. She says that we must owl the work over on time if we decide to skip the Hogwarts classes. Otherwise, it's a day of detention for every day late. And this," she held up another thick stack, "Is for all the subjects that Hogwarts don't teach. Unfortunately, we can't skip out on this."

"You know what the problem is?" Blaise scowled angrily. "All the non-compulsory homework is due this _Sunday_. No one can complete this much in two days. It's a clear conspiracy to make everyone go."

"Aw…" Ambrose muttered as he flipped through the stacks piled unceremoniously on the floor. "Are you going? To the Hogwarts classes?"

Daphne shot him a horrified look. "Of course! Professor Vilene has three essays for us; and that's only for Transfiguration. I don't think Hogwarts professors will even give us homework, or if they do, it won't be too much. It'll be a walk in the park."

"Makes sense…" Ambrose muttered, louring at the pile of compulsory homework. "Enchanting asks for a _six-foot long_ essay. On the subject of selective memory charms! Is Professor Rousseau kidding me?"

"Who asked the two of you to be so brainy? Rousseau's a tough teacher." Blaise laughed cheekily, throwing two pieces of parchment at him, and he caught it deftly. Busy examining the timetables, he missed the third piece—an envelope—and it hit him square in the gut.

"You have a letter." Blaise sighed. "And then another letter. And a parcel. That's the last of it. Next time you decide to go missing, do it on days that you _don't_ get mail."

"Unfortunately, my mail loves you too much." Ambrose opened the first letter, which was unmarked.

_Four potions have been brewed for the First Task. Confusing Concotion, Fatiguing Infusion, Laugh-Inducing Potion, and Muffling Draught. Antidotes for the four potions have been brewed, along with several other antidotes._

_I have heard rumours that someone will be poisoned—in this case, I can only surmise that someone will be dosed with one of the four potions, though they are not poisons. Various animals and plants have been imported to Hogwarts. There are rumours of Dementors, and Lobalugs. __The obstacle course is being constructed, and there is a very high platform right at the start._

_Lastly, I lift the ban on not using your Enchanting knowledge outside class time. Normally, I would not condone you using those particular skills, but since Viktor Krum has been allowed to use the Dark Arts, I see no reason to put you at a disadvantage. _

_Please, burn this after you have finished reading. –M_

Ambrose felt his brows rise. Enchanting was a most complex and dangerous discipline widely believed to have been introduced by the French. They learnt all about memory charms, Imperius-like curses, charms to influence opinions, music related magic and even more perilous spells.* It was a subject that only the students with natural aptitude could take, which was a very small number. Oaths to not reveal the knowledge to others and bans to stop students from using it on fellow schoolmates were strictly enforced.

Madame Maxime must really want Beauxbatons to win for her to waive the ban.

Making a mental note to look up Lobalugs, he reduced the letter to ashes and opened the next one.

_Ambrose,_

_Congratulations on being chosen as champion. My sister has told me everything in advance, since post is such a snail. _

_Indeed it was the same. Yule was rather grand, but if you compare it to Beauxbatons' giant ice sculptures, I'm afraid Hogwarts will pale in comparison. _

_I knew the annoyances called James Potter and Sirius Black. I'm sure they will pester you to no end, but pay them no mind. Ignore them—after all, you will be gone from Hogwarts in but a year. _

_As requested, crème brûlée and madeleine have been sent. It's in the parcel attached, and your present shall be waiting for you at home._

_On November twenty three, I will be going to Hogwarts; a few days before the First Task, as the families of the champions have been asked to view the tournament. We'll be involved in the First Task too, and that's all I can say. I shall be arriving at six in the evening, so make sure you're there._

_Tell Drake,__ the start shows itself__, finally. You too will play a vital part in this, darling._

_Bella_

Ambrose blinked owlishly. Did he read that correctly?

He scanned the letter again, and to his astonishment, 'Darling' was still written on the parchment. For a moment, he sat blankly before an astonished frown slid onto his face. It was the first time she had called him that. Normally, she held him away at arm's length, stoically expressing approval for his achievements. It felt incredibly suspicious for the woman to call him that.

What was she trying to do?

He'd think over it later—for now, he had to find Draco.

Stuffing the parchment into the pocket of his robes, Ambrose muttered a weak excuse to the other two. He slipped into his shoes and hurried out of his room.

* * *

Somehow, Ambrose managed to reach the Slytherin Common Room and asked a wary looking second year boy to call Draco out. The head of platinum head poked out and closed the door behind him, shutting off the students' curious glances. Expectant grey eyes looked up at him questioningly.

"The start shows itself," Ambrose said simply, handing him Bella's letter.

"Finally…" Draco laughed, his eyes glinting with eagerness as it roamed over the flourished italic handwriting. "So it happens this year."

"What does that mean, though?"

"Bella didn't tell you?" Draco asked curiously. "That means he's not going to bide his time anymore."

"You mean…oh." Ambrose frowned, his head tilted in contemplation.

"Yes, that's it." Draco stared down at the parchment again, and he glowed with excitement. "My job starts here, then."

"Job?"

"Spy. On Severus Snape." Draco sighed. "Seems like he got himself in a fix for Lily Potter. Apparently," he lowered his voice even though the hallway was deserted, "Snape asked the Dark Lord to spare Lily Potter, and he _also_ asked Dumbledore to give her extra protection because he didn't think the Dark Lord would spare a mudblood."

"But he did, in the end, did he not? She's still alive and kicking."

"That's why I said he's in a fix. Snape's only alive because he's close to Dumbledore and an accomplished potion brewer. Not to mention a competent duelist."

Ambrose could see the sense in keeping Snape alive. After all, if the man was a loyal follower, it'd be easy to take out Dumbledore that way. "But shouldn't Barty do this instead? He has a magical eye, after all."

"He's too busy with Mr Crouch. Or more accurately, this is a test. I think he already knows the answer, and just wants to assess me." Draco muttered sourly. "Bellatrix's the right hand, Father's the left hand. Most likely, he wants to make sure Father's successor isn't a bumbling fool."

"I don't see him sending me off for tests," Ambrose said amusedly.

"It's not the same. He likes you."

"He _likes_ me? Did you catch Ronald Weasley's germs?"

"Really," Draco insisted. "He sends you birthday presents."

"It's because I sent him one first."

"The rest of us could send him thousands of Galleons' worth of presents and he'd never send us any."

"I guess." Ambrose could not deny the truth in Draco's words, and instead shrugged, changing the subject. "You sound excited to spy on Snape."

"Very." Draco said, his eyes flashing with eagerness. "You know…you know, he promised me that I'd be free to do what I want after he succeeds."

"Promised?" Ambrose said sharply. "Do you really think he keeps his promises?"

"He kept his promise to Snape, didn't he? And if he does keep his promise, I can skip all the grovelling and even the marking. It's not that bad a deal."

"Seems like you'll be getting your Potions dream soon enough, eh?"

"Certainly seems like it." Draco glanced at the Common Room's entrance before focusing back on Ambrose. "But the rest of them…I wonder how they'll react."

"To the idea that, yes, the Dark Lord is alive?" Ambrose snorted. "They'll react with confusion, astonishment, and outrage."

"No, it's not that. They've been living their entire lives with the impression that Voldemort is dead—everyone's got their OWL results and their career advice. Then suddenly the bomb drops and they find out their career is being a Death Eater. Many of their parents don't have an inkling, like Pansy's, Theodore's, almost everyone I know..."

"I'd say Blaise and Daphne dodged a Killing Curse there. By agreeing to send them to Beauxbatons, they can stay on the Dark Lord's good side without needing to be a Death Eater. Their parents have admirable foresight."

"I almost went to Beauxbatons too." Draco muttered mournfully. "Do you still remember?"

"You failed all the entrance exams." Ambrose snickered, remembering how Draco sulked that day. "Because you wanted to go to Durmstrang so much that you began learning Bulgarian and forgot French entirely—in the end you couldn't even decipher the first question on the very first paper."

"At least Hogwarts has Thestrals."

"And it also has an array of frauds renamed as teachers."

"Fine, we're equal," Draco conceded. "We'll have inter-school classes starting next week, right?"

"Yes, why?"

"Come to Potions. Snape's the one teaching, and he hates Longbottom." Draco smirked devilishly. "But be prepared to cast a _protego_. The Grim blows up cauldrons like no other. I don't think Pansy will give up the seat beside me, but you can sit behind me—I'm sure Theodore wouldn't mind. Oh, and remember not to chat after Snape comes in…he won't stand for it, even if you're his favourite student."

* * *

A potion with a mother-of-pearl sheen sat in the cauldron. Spiral steam circles rose from it languidly—they must be studying Amortentia, Ambrose thought.

"I love the smell of Amortentia." Daphne smiled from beside him.

"Who doesn't?" Draco, who was sitting in the table in front of theirs, said. "…is that the smell of lemon?" He sniffed the air experimentally.

"What do you two smell, then?" Pansy asked, also inhaling the circling fumes.

"Sandalwood, osmanthus and green apples." Daphne said.

"Vanilla, snake musk, and—" Ambrose listed.

"Snake musk?" Draco grimaced. "Out of so many scents, you like _snake musk_?"

"Why not? I've been around snakes a lot at home." Ambrose remembered when Bella brought a crate of boa constrictors home, announcing the alarming fact that there was a snake nest in the basement cheerfully.

"Because snake musk _stinks_. I can't believe—"

"Draco, don't be rude." Pansy scowled. "Anyways, you two seem oddly familiar with Amortentia."

"We've brewed Amortentia in pre-NEWT classes." Ambrose said, and at that exact moment Snape swept in, his black cape billowing after him.

"We shall be brewing Amortentia today, as it may come out under the newest NEWT practical exam. I see that we have quite a few foreign students here today." Snape's cold black eyes roamed over the class, lingering on Neville Longbottom. "I hope that all of you will have standards higher than our resident failure."

Hermione Granger looked duly disappointed that he didn't ask any questions.

Longbottom's friends looked ready to kill, directing mutinous glares at the professor, but none of them uttered a single word. Satisfied, Snape turned to the whiteboard, tapping his wand on it and spidery handwriting crawled across the board smoothly. Immediately, 'Down with Longbottom' flashed across the room tauntingly.

"Now, start brewing. Longbottom, if you melt another potion, it'll be a week of detention."

Longbottom only looked down at his cauldron indignantly.

"Maybe you'll learn the importance of Potions soon enough." Snape said silkly, his eyes glittering with callous amusement. "You can't even tell the difference between Felix Felicis and Forgetfulness Potion, can you, Longbottom? You're going to fail the First Task miserably." He started walking along the rows of students, eyes scrutinising their movements closely. "I pity the rest of the fools that place their blind faith in you. Not that anyone with a brain would support you."

Longbottom's pestle missed its mortar—the heavy stone instead hit the desk with a resounding thump, causing a dent on the wood. Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan's faces were flushed an ugly red, though neither spoke up.

The Slytherin side exploded with loud sniggers, watching as the Gryffindors scowled and glowered heatedly at them. Five minutes later, a loud gurgling made everyone's head turn.

Neville Longbottom's cauldron was bubbling ominously, and with a tiny, seemingly insignificant squeak, the cauldron rolled up onto itself and exploded, showering his housemates with poorly brewed Amortentia.

"Longbottom!" Snape roared, livid. "What did I say about exploding cauldrons?"

"I love me!" Neville grinned as the infatuated students swamped him, angry boils starting to appear on their skins.

"Granger, take them to the Hospital Wing. Now."

"Ironic," Draco smirked, "That the only potion he manages to brew correctly turns on himself."

"Not exactly correct, per se." Ambrose muttered. "Those boils look worthy of a Bleeding Boil Curse."

* * *

"No, no, no, you've got it _wrong_." Sirius sighed tiredly. The three old friends and Lily were discussing the matter of Ambrose over lunch near Hagrid's Hut. "James, Lily; you've already got a disadvantageous start. Now he's going to be wary of the both of you."

"Sirius's right." Remus said. "You can't go straight up to him and ask him to take a blood test!"

"I know, I know, but how else can we know if he's really Harry?" James frowned. "Like you said, we can't rely on shoddy hints and guesses. If there's one way to be sure, it's a blood test."

"Yes…yes, they're right, James," Lily sighed sadly. "Blood's a sensitive thing, and we shouldn't expect him to give a near stranger a sample."

"Then how else would we know if he's Harry?" James said, annoyed.

"Marauder's Map." Remus suggested.

"It's missing. Not even Filch knows who took it." James said glumly.

"We can make a new one, though." Sirius mulled. "It'll take us some time, especially since we all have jobs, but it should be done in a month, give or take a few weeks?"

"I forgot the charms and spells we used, though," James said sheepishly, starting to cheer up.

"Don't worry," Sirius grinned, clapping his friend on the back, "We can scour through some books—it may take us a lot more time, but it's nothing that can't be done."

"Yeah." James smiled. "Did we use the books from—"

"Oh! James, James," Lily said frantically, pulling on her husband's arm. "He's coming over, I think?"

"Who?"

"Har—Ambrose."

Indeed, the boy was heading towards them, a particularly prominent figure with his powder blue fedora. The four friends shared an uncertain glance.

"You know, I've always wondered why they wear blue hats." Sirius muttered.

"I honestly think it looks better than Hogwart's pointed black ones, though." Remus admitted.

"Mrs Potter," Ambrose said, stopping in front of Lily. "I'm here to apologise for my rude departure yesterday."

"Oh—oh no, no, you shouldn't be." Lily said, her astonishment quickly fading to delight. "It was our fault, actually, for being so insensitive…"

"It was still terribly rude of me—but if you don't mind, could we have a talk, just between the three of us?"

"A talk? Of course, of course, we can discuss it over tea, at Lily's office, if you're okay with it?" James proposed.

Ambrose nodded—both James and Lily smiled brightly, and the three ambled towards the teachers' quarters. Sirius smiled just as cheerfully, looking at their retreating backs.

"They're finally getting somewhere. It's a good sign that he approached them of his own will." Sirius said, satisfied.

"Yeah, I suppose." Remus muttered, worry in his eyes. Was he really the only one that felt the boy's intentions were dubious at best? "But don't you find it strange, Sirius?"

"Strange? Why?"

"He's reacted with hostility every time, and has even taken to avoiding them…why would he look for them on his own accord?" What Remus left unsaid was, and what did he want from James and Lily?

"Lily talked to him after the Weighing. Maybe he was touched by her sincerity?"

"Touched? He was annoyed." Remus frowned. "Just…don't you feel it's just strange?"

Sirius glanced at him wearily. "Fine, fine. Yes, it's just a little strange. But I believe in his goodwill. It's not like he has anything to gain."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Sirius grinned, clapping Remus on the back. "Now, let's go sit outside their office and wait for their good news!"

* * *

**A/N**: *- this lovely idea was inspired from a Beauxbatons RP site, though it'll be changed somewhat.

Loads of thanks to SlythrInHermione for his help and fantastic ideas.

I often edit past chapters, so if you see something I missed out, please tell me. I'm still not too sure on Snape's true loyalties. Madame Maxime's letter has been edited slightly so the ban is lifted 'outside class time' and not only during the First Task. Kindly review. :)

**Also**, all due apologies to readers that really wanted Cho/Harry! And no, the pairing definitely won't change anymore after this.


	7. Sparks Fly

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, no money is being made, and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

"Oh no, he's back again, why can't he read on his stupid ship?" Hermione said irritably as Viktor Krum slouched in, cast a surly look over at the trio, and settled himself in a distant corner with a pile of books. "Maybe we should leave. His fan club will be here in a moment, twittering away again…"

"Just a bit more." Neville muttered and his brow was furrowed in concentration.

"Yeah, Mione. We're not going to let that Slytherin git win!" Ron added.

"Okay, okay…" Hermione grumbled, casting the gang of Krum's fans an irritated glance. The area around them started to fill with soft chitter, the girls stealing peeks at the Bulgarian star from behind shelves. "Everyone's crowding in the restricted section now…"

"This is useless," Ron moaned, rubbing the side of his head. "Bloody hell, we don't even know what's going to appear."

"You know it's an obstacle course. Mr Crouch also mentioned knowledge and potions, along with spell mastery." Hermione reasoned.

"Knowledge and potions," Neville scoffed. "That can be anything from household cleaning charms to Hagrid's Skrewts. And Potions…" he gave a heavy sigh. "Potions…"

"Well, at least General charms will surely be useful."

"You mean stuff like Summoning Charms and levitation? Neville isn't going to stand a chance with that." Ron sighed. "It's the _Triwizard_. They'll have sphinxes, dragons…everything dangerous. How are those going to help Neville? He's going to be just as good as Beauxbatons with their flouncy music."

"Beauxbatons teaches more than "flouncy music"! They just won the Yearly Western Duelling award last year, for your information. And the Ministry promised to make the Triwizard less dangerous when the tournament was reinstated!" Hermione huffed loudly, making herself heard over the fan girls' excited murmurs. "That's the only reason the Tournament was reinstated—they wouldn't want their most brilliant to all die off, naturally. Dumbledore wouldn't let students die just because of a competition."

"Well, I hope so…" Neville gulped. "D'you think Pince will let us check this many books out?"

Hermione ran an appraising eye over the table. "No, not really. I think she'll let you have five or six at most…but you don't need so many books, do you? No…I don't think you need the one on Care of Magical Creatures or the Herbology one; after all, the focus is on knowledge and Potions. Maybe you'll need this one…blasting charms…and the one that teaches you how to identify Potions. I think they won't ask you to brew a Potion, will they? It'll be sort of boring and anyone can do it too. You still have the permission pass from Professor McGonagall, I hope, or the librarian wouldn't let you take away even one. This is the Restricted Section, after all." she blathered.

Her friends only stared at her blankly.

"It's really too loud here," Hermione said disapprovingly. She frowned, half standing up. "We can go back to—"

At that very second, Ambrose walked past with a honey-blonde haired Beauxbatons girl, the two casting their table a scornful glare. With an abrupt _click_, Hermione snapped her jaw shut and hurriedly sat down. "—to practicing nonverbal Charms!" she squeaked, burying her head in one of the books.  
A gang of girls edged slowly into the Restricted Section, much like how the previous group did, chattering in soft, excited tones.

Neville and Ron exchanged sceptical glances.

"But—I thought—didn't you want to go back to Gryffindor Tower?" Neville mumbled blankly.

"No, when did I ever say that?" Hermione snapped, her cheeks faintly red. "It's really too loud here, so we should practice nonverbal charms…so we wouldn't contribute to the noise."

"That is the stupidest excuse I've ever heard." Ron snapped right back hotly. "And that isn't even a Charms book!"

"We have so many here; of course I couldn't find the right one at once." Hermione said defensively, slamming the Herbology book shut sharply.

Ron made a strangled noise of exasperation. "Oof—it's that stupid French git, isn't it?" he pointed an accusing finger at the witch. "Consorting with a Slytherin!"

"He isn't even a Hogwarts student."

"Hanging around _Malfoy _counts."

"You should be happy Ginny has classes now, then," Hermione said loftily. "Or she'd be following around the boy you call a Slytherin git."

"Don't drag my sister into this!"

"Hmph." Hermione said indignantly and reopened the Herbology book. "Childish prat."

Hermione and Ron glared at each other furiously, and Neville stayed silent, looking nervously at the both of them. After a few moments, Ron stomped out of the library.

Several tables away Daphne and Ambrose were observing the bickering as they unloaded the books they had picked out.

"Gryffindors. They explode with rage every time I see them." Daphne sighed, shaking her head. "But do you really only need two books?"

"Only two," Ambrose affirmed, and glanced at Neville Longbottom's table. "I only wanted to check up on certain creatures and the limits of conjuration. Unlike Longbottom, studying everything from Kneazles to cleaning charms religiously."

They read in silence for a few minutes when Ambrose noticed Daphne alternating between glaring at his stalkers and reading.

"Distracted?"

"No, I'm focusing with perfect concentration."

"Are you by any chance jealous of my loyal stalkers?" Ambrose said, smirking.

"Not at all," Daphne sniffed. "If you apply that logic, I think Longbottom's jealous of you."

Indeed, Neville was glaring at Ambrose. "—already annoying when Krum came in; now Eschete has to pop in too, really, don't they have their own books? C'mon, Hermione, let's go."

"Oh…uh…it's okay, Neville, you can go first…I'll stay here for a bit more." Hermione said, shooing the other boy on. "I want to study the Snargaluffs. Professor Sprout said it'll come out for finals next June."

"But, Hermione—"

Hermione cast a timid glance at Ambrose's table. "Go, go, I bet Ron's sulking somewhere." She hissed quietly.

With a frown, Neville shuffled off, squeezing past the throng of fans that blocked the entrance.

"Don't they have their own books?" Daphne said in a mockery of Neville's voice. "How daft. Of course we wouldn't bring the entire library with us."

"That'll be one less rival to worry over. Not that I'm worried about the Tournament, since I'll be unusually well prepared."

A gleam of understanding flashed in Daphne's eyes. "That's why you approached the Potters yesterday during lunch…"

Ambrose gave her a playful grin. "I wouldn't have admitted it to anyone else, but yes. That, amongst other things."

Making sure Ambrose's stalkers weren't close enough to hear them, she leaned in closer. "So what's coming out for the First Task?" Daphne said in a low whisper.

"Many things. The obstacle course itself poses problems, like an insurmountable height right at the start and a long stretch of lake that you shouldn't swim over. There are all kinds of animals, too. Acromantula, all kinds of trolls, sirens…and, well, a manticore."

"Manticore?" Daphne repeated, alarmed. "But a manticore's skin is impenetrable. How do they expect you to defeat that?"

"Through its mouth, or maybe its ears."

"But still—a manticore? They said no one would die this time…" she said, looking into his eyes worriedly.

"Nobody would want to watch their champions compete in a daisy-picking race. At least we don't have to face a dragon, or Merlin forbid, a Nundu."

"A daisy-picking race?" Daphne said, pursing her lips in contemplation, and a hint of a smile quirked at the edges. "Only because you're competing, Ambrose, would I be willing to watch that over a dragon-wrestling match."

Ambrose gave a hearty laugh, reaching to his right and casually draping his arm over Daphne's shoulders. She jumped and blushed slightly at the unexpected gesture but didn't protest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrose caught a flurry of activity between the girls badly hidden amongst the bookshelves—he wasn't sure whether the disturbance was due to anger or excitement. Granger, an obnoxiously enthusiastic girl that he remembered from the new classes was openly gawking at them, her nostrils flaring.

Ignoring the distractions Ambrose smiled at his friend, "I'm flattered, but really, Daphne, I would take a manticore over daisy picking races any day." Ambrose said, smiling. "At least there won't be a chance of Longbottom winning in the former, hm?"

"I suppose…" Daphne sighed, reaching for the books they had picked out earlier. "But if you have to face such dangerous things, I'll make sure you'll be well prepared. Leave Rousseau's essay to me, I'll write it for you."

"There's no nee—"

"Believe me there is. Now, shush and concentrate on this," and tossed a book into his lap.

* * *

Lily walked with a bounce and James was unusually pleasant. It was in these little actions that Sirius saw their newfound happiness. It was heartening to see the pair behaving so happily after their decade-old moodiness.

"Cockroach Cluster." James said merrily, and the gargoyle sprung aside to let the three in. Dumbledore had only asked for the three of them, to Remus' annoyance.

Dumbledore was already in his seat, Fawkes squawking softly.

Sirius plopped down on the nearest armchair. "Where's Moody?"

"He's busy investigating the person who poisoned his cabbages, and Severus is still preparing for the First Task." Dumbledore said, sitting up in his chair. "Now, James, Lily—what's this I hear about Harry Potter?"

The two Potters glanced at each other.

"Well, Albus, we found a boy, Ambrose, to be strangely similar to Harry." James said hesitantly. "But it's far from confirmed yet."

"Why do you think he is Harry?" Dumbledore said, propping himself up with his elbows. "Of course, I do see the resemblance between our young champion and the two of you…"

"He shares the same birthdate as Harry, and well…" Lily bit her lips. "I know it sounds moronic—such things aren't genetic, but we had a good talk a few days ago, and his best subject is Charms too."

"Have you considered asking him to take a blood test?"

"No… after all blood's a sensitive subject, especially in pureblood families."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "Maybe you should give it a try. If he really is Harry, that's our prophecy child right there."

"Prophecy child?" James repeated, startled. "But doesn't Neville hold that epithet?"

"Why, my boy…if I must be honest, Neville does not seem like a suitable candidate." Dumbledore said, stroking his beard. "While he does fulfil the basic requirement, Voldemort hasn't marked Neville as his equal yet."

Lily shook her head. They've been over this before. If more than one person that met the requirement was born, Voldemort himself would choose to whom it would ultimately refer. "But it was Neville in the end, wasn't it? Because he was the only one after Harry disappeared. There isn't any need for him to be marked."

"That's where you got it wrong, Lily. If you and your husband's hunches are accurate, Ambrose will be Harry Potter. Neville is obviously unmarked—if Harry Potter is alive, he will most likely be the Prophesised One."

James and Lily stared at each other again, aghast. They hadn't thought of that.

"But what if neither boy is marked?" Lily said, her fingers grasping at the fabric of her robes anxiously.

"The Prophecy would not become true…in essence, a failed prophecy, which will crack apart if all the requirements aren't met by ten years of its making." Dumbledore frowned, his earlier twinkle diminishing significantly. "Many prophecies face that fate. I do not believe this particular one will. Voldemort is too arrogant, too rash…surely; surely he will have marked one of them…"

He did not know that the prophecy had long cracked apart years ago. The remains had been carted off, along with many other failed prophecies, to the Unspeakables' Research Department.

Shaking his head, Dumbledore looked up to scrutinise the Potters. "So, will you ask him?"

"We…we will." James said.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Thank you. The sooner the better. Remember, all this is for the greater good."

"Oh…okay." James muttered.

Looking cheerful again, Dumbledore straightened up. "Good, good. Now, Sirius, how is Lucius Malfoy?"

"That stuck-up jerk?" Sirius said, also sitting up straight. "Well, he's treating everyone like junk and Fudge loves him—nothing new."

"I heard many Death Eaters—or ex-Death Eaters—have been getting positions of power at the Ministry?"

"Yeah. Rabastan Lestrange is second in line for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, right after Amelia Bones and Jugson's in good with old Crouch's department. The rest of them are still small fry though."

"Worrying, worrying…lastly, about the Wizengamot; I heard there was a new member. Have you heard anything about that at all?"

"Nothing at all. Why are you asking us, Albus? Aurors rarely have contact with the Wizengamot in any case." James said.

"I hoped one of you would have heard something." The old wizard gave a heavy sigh. "It's been hard to find out _anything_ since my dismissal from my position as Chief Warlock."

"Well…" Sirius said uncertainly. "I've heard a rumour about one of Lucius Malfoy's ridiculously fat bribes got someone into the Wizengamot—but that's old banal trite—Malfoy doesn't have that much influence, does he?"

"Oh, but he has, Sirius." Dumbledore sighed. "Never mind, never mind. I will do my best to find out more. It appears we have discussed the most pressing matters, I believe I've already taken up enough of your time. Do enjoy the rest of your evening."

Declining the sweets politely, the three ducked out of Dumbledore's office at the dismissal. James opened his mouth, ready to speak, when both Lily and Sirius waved for him to be quiet.

"Later." Sirius mouthed.

* * *

Leaving one by one, the Death Eaters exited quietly, leaving Bellatrix and Voldemort alone in the Malfoys' drawing room.

"It's already five thirty." Bellatrix said, looking at the antique grandfather clock situated at a corner of the room. "We have to arrive at six in the evening, my lord."

"Omit the last two words and we'll be fine. Shall we?"

"Of course," Bellatrix said, smiling. She tapped the tip of her wand lightly on her head. Thick, shining dark hair changed into blonde strands, with the ends loosely curled. Her eyes melted to brilliant green and her lips transformed into pink pixie lips.

Voldemort mirrored her actions. His hair remained black, and his black eyes transformed into a piercing pale blue, much like Albus Dumbledore's.

They donned their travelling cloaks, stepping out of the drawing room.

"You must remember to reapply the Transfigurations every two days." Voldemort said abruptly as they crossed the Malfoys' well-mowed lawn.

"I'm not the type to forget such things." Bellatrix said before blanching. "I'm very sorry for my impudence, my lord."

"No, no. You are Annabelle. And I am Sebastien. That is how we must act when at Hogwarts, or Dumbledore shall be onto us. Most importantly—did I not say this just now? Dispose of that horrendous honorific."

"Of course, my apologies." Bellatrix repeated. "Aren't we taking the Floo to Hogwarts now?"

"We will first travel to Eschete Manor." Voldemort said as if it was common sense. "Then we will Floo to Hogwarts. Suppose if Dumbledore tracks the Floo Network and finds out we came from Malfoy Manor?"

"But Dumbledore can't track the Floo." Bellatrix said uncertainly.

"Oh, Annabelle, never underestimate Dumbledore. Maybe he's pretending to not know _anything_…why, if we underestimate him, calamity upon calamity may descend onto us!"

"I see…" Bellatrix said with just a minuscule hint of doubt in her tone.

* * *

A/N: First Task next chapter. :D


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